A Wonderful And Magical World

A group passing in the opposite direction had the clip playing too. Dean's voice carried from someone's phone, clear and recognizable beneath the sound of morning traffic and students hurrying toward class. Someone had edited a thick black mustache over footage of him skating, with DENNIS DI LAURENTIS, PRIVATE CITIZEN flashing across the bottom.

You lowered your head and kept walking.

The conversation had felt different last night, confined to your headphones and the dim recording space you had built out of blankets, soundproofing foam, and equipment that technically belonged to Briar Athletics. Dean had been an irritating voice slipping through your filter, answering questions you had not asked and defending a friend nobody believed existed.

Now the entire campus had heard him.

More troublingly, they had heard you with him.

A table outside the student center had turned the call into a drinking game despite it being far too early for anyone involved to be drinking. Someone shouted that everybody had to take a shot whenever Dennis referred to Dean in the third person.

You hurried past before you could hear the rules for whenever Wire Girl sounded annoyed.

Your phone had not stopped vibrating since you left your apartment. The podcast's follower count had climbed overnight. The episode had already doubled the numbers from the week before, and nearly every campus account had clipped some part of the call.

You should have been thrilled.

Instead, you kept remembering the section you had cut.

Dean had gone quieter near the end, after his defense of his unnamed friend had dissolved into something less performative. He had asked whether you ever got tired of hearing everyone else's secrets without being allowed to tell any of your own.

You had ended the call soon after that.

You had also listened to the raw recording twice before going to sleep, which was information you intended to take to your grave.

Mara and Camden were already seated at your usual café table when you arrived. Camden had positioned his tablet between two coffees and a plate containing the remains of a muffin he had apparently attacked rather than eaten. Screenshots covered the screen in neat rows.

Mara saw you first. The corner of her mouth lifted around her straw, but she restrained herself from saying anything revealing while Camden twisted around in his chair.

"Finally. Sit down. This has developed."

You dropped your bag beside the table. "It has been twelve hours."

"And in those twelve hours, Dennis Di Laurentis has united this campus in a way the administration never could."

Mara pushed the untouched coffee toward you. "Drink that before he starts presenting exhibits."

Camden tapped the tablet. The first screenshot was the mustache edit you had already seen outside. The second was a poll from a Briar meme account asking whether Dennis was Dean. Ninety-eight percent of respondents had chosen obviously, while the remaining two percent had selected Dean has never met Dennis in his life.

"I have compiled the evidence," Camden announced.

Mara stared at him. "Camden, no shit it was Dean, dummy. He called himself Dennis and used his regular voice."

His expression tightened with genuine offense. "I know it was Dean."

"Then what are we doing?"

"I'm determining motive."

Mara looked across the table at you, her face perfectly composed except for the amusement in her eyes. "Of course you are."

Camden swiped to another page. "Dean did not call because he wanted to defend his reputation. He spent approximately three minutes defending himself and another eight antagonizing Wire Girl."

You wrapped both hands around the coffee. "Maybe he enjoys antagonizing people."

"That is not new information. What matters is that he had already made his point and stayed on the line anyway."

Mara reached across to steal a piece of his muffin. "Maybe he enjoys hearing himself talk."

"Incorrect. He enjoys hearing her talk."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

Camden did not notice. He was too busy pulling up a waveform of the episode as though he had been hired by a federal agency.

"He laughs four times," he continued. "Not polite laughter. Real laughter. The kind men do when they think a woman is funny and become deeply inconvenienced about it."

"You need a hobby," you said.

"This is my hobby."

"It shouldn't be."

Mara chewed thoughtfully. "He has other hobbies. They're worse."

Camden ignored both of you. "The current question is whether this was his first call."

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

Mara's gaze snapped toward you, but Camden was still staring at the tablet.

"What makes you think he called before?" you asked, aiming for casual and missing by enough that Mara kicked you beneath the table.

Camden finally looked up. "He knew how the delay worked. He also knew exactly how far he could push before she cut his audio. That suggests familiarity."

"Or he listens to the show," Mara said. "Like half the campus."

"It suggests familiarity," Camden repeated, because he considered volume a reasonable substitute for evidence.

You glanced down at your phone as another notification appeared. Someone had created a Dennis fan account. The profile picture was Dean's official hockey headshot with the eyes covered by a black bar.

"I have to get to the media office," you said, gathering your things before Camden could begin examining prior callers.

Mara stood with you. "I'll walk you out."

Camden waved without looking away from his investigation. "I'll send updates!"

"Please don't," you said.

Outside the café, Mara waited until the door shut behind you.

"You listened to the recording again, didn't you?"

You adjusted the strap of your bag. "I had to edit it."

"After you edited it."

A group of students passed with the episode playing from a phone between them. Dean's laugh reached you before they disappeared down the path.

Mara's eyebrows rose.

"It was one time," you admitted.

"You look guilty enough that I know it was more than one."

"You're starting to sound like Camden."

"That is messed up, and you know it."

You walked together toward the athletics building, your shoulders drawn against the morning chill. Mara stayed quiet long enough that you knew she was deciding whether to push.

"He liked talking to you," she finally said.

"He liked annoying me."

"Those things are not mutually exclusive for someone like Dean."

You gave her a look.

Mara smiled and nudged your shoulder. "I'm not saying you need to pick out curtains. I'm saying Camden is ridiculous about most things, but he might not be wrong about this one."

"He called because I talked about him."

"He could have left a comment. He could have submitted a complaint. He called the live line, lied terribly about his name, and stayed there until you ended the conversation."

You stopped near the steps of the athletics building. "You're enjoying this too much."

"Absolutely." Her expression softened. "I'm also reminding you that the person on the phone was Dean Di Laurentis. He's probably forgotten half the conversation already."

That should have made you feel better, yet it didn't.

The first indication that Elaine was having a bad morning was the closed door to her office. She only closed it when she needed privacy, silence, or several uninterrupted minutes to reconsider every decision that had led her to collegiate athletics.

The second indication was the printed picture taped to the outside.

Someone had placed the fake mustache over Dean's official roster photograph and written DENNIS beneath it in red marker.

You removed it before knocking.

"Come in."

Elaine sat behind her desk with her laptop open, her phone pressed against one ear, and an expression suggesting the person on the other end was steadily reducing her faith in humanity.

"No," she said. "There is no student athlete named Dennis Di Laurentis registered at Briar. Yes, I understand that was the name provided. Because it was not his name."

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"No, the athletics department did not authorize anybody to call a gossip podcast. I cannot comment on the private recreational activities of fictional citizens."

You lowered yourself into the chair opposite her.

Elaine ended the call and placed her phone facedown with more restraint than you would have managed.

"Why would he do that?"

There did not appear to be a safe answer.

"Maybe Dennis felt strongly about the issue."

Elaine looked at you.

You folded your hands in your lap. "Sorry."

"My inbox contains eighty-seven messages about this. The social account has been tagged in a video of Dean wearing a digital mustache. Logan liked it from his public profile."

"Did he remove it?"

"After six hundred people took screenshots."

That sounded like Logan.

Elaine turned the laptop toward you. The latest post showed Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Dean standing along the boards during practice. Someone had edited detective hats onto everyone except Dean, who wore the mustache.

"Dean was told to leave the rumor alone," she said. "He was specifically told not to engage with Briar Wire. Somehow, he interpreted that as permission to invent a man named Dennis and call them directly."

"The host."

"What?"

"You said call them. There's only one host."

Elaine's eyes narrowed slightly.

You reached for your coffee. "As far as anyone knows."

Elaine studied you for another moment before turning the laptop back around. "I need clean content from practice today. Something normal enough to remind people that this department exists for purposes other than producing attractive men with poor impulse control."

You attempted not to react to attractive.

"There's already a practice package scheduled for Friday."

"It is now scheduled for this afternoon. Get a few short answers from the guys, film warmups, and make Dean say something that will not become a campus euphemism."

"That last part seems outside my qualifications."

"You got three usable answers out of him yesterday."

"He gave me nine unusable ones."

"Then you have experience."

Elaine stood and handed you a folder containing the revised shot list. "Nobody discusses Briar Wire on camera. Nobody says Dennis. Nobody pretends to know Dennis. Nobody calls the host. I have already explained this to them."

A burst of laughter carried down the hallway.

Elaine closed her eyes.

"Did it go well?" you asked.

"No."

The answer should have warned you.

The laughter grew louder as you followed Elaine toward the rink. By the time you reached the tunnel, Logan had his phone held out in front of Garrett and Tucker, replaying a video none of them needed to see again.

Garrett was already dressed for practice, retaping the top of his stick while Tucker adjusted one of his skates beside him. Dean stood a few feet away with his arms folded, looking far too relaxed for someone who had created an administrative crisis before breakfast.

Logan noticed you first.

"Did Elaine send you to film Dennis?"

Dean turned his head. "Keep talking, Logan."

"I wasn't speaking to you."

Garrett glanced up from his stick. "He's been doing this for twenty minutes."

"You keep responding," Tucker pointed out.

"That's because he keeps speaking."

Logan raised his phone so you could see the screen. Someone had layered the audio from last night's call over footage of Dean playing against Vermont, making it appear as though he was defending himself while checking an opposing player into the boards.

"It's called 'Dennis Defends His Best Friend,'" Logan explained.

Dean made no attempt to look. "That sounds like copyright infringement."

"The footage belongs to Briar," you said, setting your equipment bag on the bench. "Technically, it's Elaine's problem."

"Everything is Elaine's problem today," Garrett said.

Elaine stepped into the tunnel behind you. "And yet some of you continue working tirelessly to give me more."

Logan lowered his phone.

Her gaze moved across the four of them. "I understand the instructions I gave you were difficult, so I'll repeat them. Nobody says Dennis on camera. Nobody discusses Briar Wire. Nobody attempts to send a message to the host through official athletics content."

Dean looked genuinely puzzled. "Who would do that?"

Elaine pointed toward the ice. "Anyone who is not currently being filmed can begin warming up."

Garrett and Tucker moved immediately. Logan lingered long enough to give Dean an encouraging pat on the shoulder before following them through the gate.

Dean watched him go. "I'm going to hide every left shoe he owns."

Elaine looked at you. "Do not include that in the package."

"I hadn't planned on it."

She left to take another call near the offices while you unpacked the camera and checked the revised shot list.

Garrett went first and gave you exactly what you needed in one take, speaking about the team's preparation for Friday's game with the ease of someone who understood that the fastest way to finish an interview was to answer the question properly.

Tucker's response was shorter but just as usable.

Logan made it through almost the entire answer before his eyes drifted toward Dean and his mouth twitched.

You lowered the camera.

"I didn't say anything," he protested.

"You were about to."

"You don't know that."

"You looked directly at him."

Dean rested a hand against his chest. "Why am I being punished for Logan's inability to behave professionally?"

"Dennis would never blame his friends like this," Logan said.

You pointed toward the ice. "Go."

Logan pushed away from the boards, laughing as he joined Garrett and Tucker.

That left Dean.

You positioned him in front of an empty section of the boards and lifted the camera.

"Whenever you're ready."

He looked directly into the lens. "The team has been working hard this week, and we're looking forward to bringing that energy into Friday's game."

You waited after he finished.

Dean's eyebrows rose. "What?"

"That was normal."

"I'm capable of normal."

"Do it again."

"Why?"

You adjusted the focus. "I didn't like it."

A laugh escaped Elaine from somewhere behind you before she disguised it as a cough. Still speaking into her phone, she continued toward the media offices.

"Get one more take," she called. "Make sure you have everything you need before he gets on the ice."

Dean repeated the statement without adding anything that could be interpreted as a reference to anonymous podcast hosts, fictional friends, or the back entrance of any building on campus.

You recorded a few seconds of him pulling on his gloves before lowering the camera.

From the ice, Logan struck the boards with his stick.

"Great job, Dennis!"

Elaine's voice carried back through the hallway. "Logan!"

"Sorry!"

Dean watched him skate away. "The shoes are only the beginning."

"That sounds like something Dennis would do."

His head turned slowly toward you.

"Et tu?"

"I literally don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not."

You crouched to place the camera inside its bag, giving your hands something to do while Dean remained beside you. He could have joined the others immediately. Instead, he leaned against the boards and watched you secure the lens cap before asking whether you had listened to the episode.

"The entire campus listened," you said. "Although Dennis might want to spend more than three seconds choosing an alias before his next public appearance."

His smile suggested the criticism did not trouble him. "You assume anonymity was the goal."

That made you pause.

Dean explained that calling as himself would have turned every word into an official statement. Athletics would have drafted a response, Elaine would have called him before sunrise, and someone would have found a way to make the entire thing sound far more serious than it was. Dennis, however, was free to argue with an anonymous host without pretending he had consulted a publicist first.

"So he's a loophole."

"He's a private citizen."

You tried not to smile, but Dean caught it anyway.

His attention lingered as you zipped the camera bag. "You like the show."

It was not quite a question.

Pretending otherwise would have sounded ridiculous when half the university listened, but admitting how closely you followed it created an entirely different problem.

"The host can be funny," you conceded. "When she isn't too busy enjoying her own opinion."

"So most of the time."

"She would probably say the same thing about Dennis."

Dean laughed and looked toward the ice, where Garrett was directing the beginning of a drill. Logan kept glancing toward the tunnel, clearly waiting for another chance to make the situation worse.

The humor eased from Dean's expression before he spoke again. He admitted that Wire Girl had done something most people around Briar rarely bothered to do. She had allowed him to answer.

"People hear something about me and decide it fits before they ask whether it happened," he said. "She talks plenty of shit, but when somebody challenged her, she didn't hide behind the recording. She picked up."

Something about the way he said it made the voice from your headphones feel too close to the man standing beside you.

You adjusted the strap of your bag. "So you called to defend yourself."

"At first." His mouth curved faintly. "Then the conversation got interesting."

He offered the admission casually, leaving himself enough room to pretend it meant nothing.

You glanced toward the ice rather than letting him watch you process it. "She sounded irritated."

"She was." Dean did not seem bothered by that. If anything, he looked pleased by the memory. "She also stayed on the line."

The whistle sounded again. Dean pushed away from the boards but paused before stepping through the gate.

"You think she'll answer another call?"

You met his gaze. "That depends on whether the caller gives her something worth answering."

Dean held your eyes for another moment, appearing satisfied with an answer you had not meant to make sound like an invitation.

"Good to know."

He joined the drill, and you told yourself the strange feeling in your chest came from relief that the conversation was over.

Logan skated close enough to say something that made Dean shove him toward the boards. Garrett separated them without interrupting the drill, while Tucker continued as though his teammates trying to injure one another over a fake name was an ordinary part of practice.

You filmed warmups and gathered the remaining footage Elaine requested. By the time you packed your equipment, your stomach had begun reminding you that coffee did not qualify as breakfast.

Mara's message appeared as you left the rink.

We're at the student center. Camden has created another chart. Come save me.

You found them at a table near the windows twenty minutes later. Camden had traded his tablet for his laptop, which somehow made his investigation look even more official.

"No," you said before sitting down.

"I haven't told you what this is."

"You made a timeline."

He angled the screen away. "You don't deserve to see it."

Mara pushed a basket of fries toward your side of the table. "Take these before he starts explaining audio chemistry."

"Audio chemistry isn't a thing."

"That is what I told him."

"It is absolutely a thing," Camden argued. "You can hear attraction."

"You can hear Dean enjoying attention," Mara said. "That is not groundbreaking."

A familiar voice interrupted Camden's response.

"Are you still talking about this?"

Allie stood at the end of the table with Hannah and Grace beside her. She knew Camden through the theatre department well enough to look unsurprised by the collection of screenshots covering his laptop.

"I'm analyzing motive," he told her.

Allie glanced at the screen. "He was flirting. Mystery solved."

Camden sat straighter. "Thank you."

Mara looked between them. "How do you two know each other?"

"He came to one of our rehearsals and spent the entire intermission explaining why the lead's boyfriend was cheating," Allie said.

"He was."

"He was also fictional."

"That does not make me wrong."

Grace laughed as they borrowed chairs from the next table. Hannah sat beside Mara, while Allie positioned herself close enough to Camden's laptop to begin examining his evidence. Grace dropped into the chair across from you.

"Logan says liking the video was an accident."

"He also added it to his story," you reminded her.

"With a caption."

Mara reached for another fry. "What did it say?"

Grace pulled out her phone and read it aloud. "My thoughts are with Dennis during this difficult time."

Camden pressed a hand to his chest. "That is beautiful."

"It is why I took his phone away."

The lunch rush swelled around you, filling the student center with conversation and the scrape of chairs. You had almost convinced yourself the subject might finally change when Beau approached carrying a tray overloaded with food.

He wore sweats and looked as though he had come straight from a morning lift.

"Is this the Dennis support group?"

Camden pointed toward the empty chair beside Allie. "Sit down."

Beau obeyed. "The football group chat has been unusable since seven this morning. Someone put Dean's face on a missing-person poster."

Allie immediately reached for Camden's laptop. "Have you seen this one?"

"Do not encourage him," Mara said.

It was already too late.

Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Dean arrived a few minutes later, showered and changed from practice. Garrett went directly to Hannah, lowering his head to kiss her before taking the chair she had saved. Grace returned Logan's phone only after making him promise not to post anything else. Tucker settled at the end of the table with his lunch, apparently accepting that Dennis would remain the topic no matter where he ate.

Dean stopped when he saw Camden's screen.

"No."

"That's exactly what Elaine said," you told him.

He looked at you, and the recognition that passed through his expression made you abruptly aware that nobody else at the table knew you had spent several minutes discussing Wire Girl with him alone.

Camden turned the laptop around. "I've constructed a timeline."

"Of what?"

"Your descent into obsession."

Dean took the remaining seat across from you. "I called once."

"You stayed on the line for eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds."

Dean stared at him. "Why do you know that?"

"I care about the truth."

Mara stole one of your fries. "He cares about being right. They frequently overlap."

Allie pointed at Dean with one of Beau's fries. "You were flirting."

Dean dismissed the accusation, but Hannah quietly pointed out that he had not sounded particularly angry. Tucker added, without looking up from the ketchup packet he was opening, that Dean had stopped defending his imaginary friend three minutes into the call.

"Did all of you listen with a stopwatch?" Dean asked.

"Camden did," you said.

"I also counted the laughs. Four."

Logan turned toward Dean. "That's more than you laugh at most of our jokes."

"Your jokes aren't funny."

Beau leaned across the table. "Wire Girl's are?"

Dean stole a fry from his tray rather than answer.

"You made me replay the part where she called you emotionally dependent on your own reputation," Beau continued.

The table erupted.

Dean pointed the stolen fry at him. "That is not what happened."

Beau looked delighted. "You said the audio cut out."

"The football facilities have terrible reception."

"We were in the parking lot."

Camden turned toward Mara. "Please note that he requested a replay."

"I'm not your secretary."

"You're the only person here with neat handwriting."

Allie had already started adding something to his timeline.

Mara watched them with growing regret. "We cannot let the two of you become friends."

Dean's gaze eventually returned to you. "You've been quiet."

"I'm eating."

"You had an opinion at the rink."

Everyone's attention shifted toward you.

You hated him a little for that.

Allie's eyes narrowed with immediate interest. "You discussed the call at the rink?"

"He asked whether I listened," you said, keeping your tone even. "Apparently, my answer did not provide enough validation."

Dean objected to that description, but Camden had already started looking between the two of you with the intensity of someone about to open a new document.

Mara reached across and closed his laptop.

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

Dean looked amused. "Does he always do this?"

"Yes," you, Mara, and Allie answered at once.

Camden looked betrayed by all three of you.

Garrett redirected the conversation by asking Beau about football practice, and the table gradually separated into smaller discussions. Hannah stole pieces of Garrett's lunch while he pretended not to notice. Grace checked Logan's phone twice when he became too interested in something on the screen. Tucker stayed outside the renewed debate, though you caught him shaking his head when Dean quietly asked Beau to send him the missing-person edit.

When everyone began separating for afternoon classes and practices, you returned to the media office with Elaine's package still waiting to be assembled.

She approved the final cut with only two changes. Garrett's quote opened the video, followed by Tucker and Logan over footage from warmups. Dean's painfully normal statement closed it.

No mention of Dennis. No suggestive comments. Nothing that could reasonably become a campus euphemism.

You uploaded the final version shortly after seven and returned home with the pleasant exhaustion that came from accomplishing something nobody could turn into gossip.

The feeling lasted twenty-three minutes.

After changing into an old sweatshirt, you settled at the desk near your bedroom window. The equipment for Briar Wire remained hidden beneath a folded blanket and two storage boxes whenever anyone visited, but tonight you pulled out the microphone and connected the voice filter before opening the submission portal.

Most of the new messages involved Dennis. Several claimed to be him.

One person insisted they had seen Dean practicing his fake name in the library. Another claimed he had been born Dennis and changed it after a traumatic childhood spelling bee.

You moved both into the joke folder.

The next submission did not have a subject line.

You opened it and stopped halfway through the first paragraph.

According to the anonymous sender, Dean had been caught inside the athletics building after midnight with the daughter of one of Briar's largest donors. A security employee had supposedly found them in a restricted corridor near the media offices. The incident had been recorded, but the footage disappeared before university administrators could review it.

Elaine's name appeared in the next paragraph.

The sender claimed she had ordered security to erase the recording to protect Dean and prevent the donor from withdrawing funding from the hockey program. Several players supposedly knew what happened, and an unnamed employee had allegedly been threatened with dismissal for speaking about it.

You reread the submission.

It contained enough details to sound convincing at first glance. There was a date, an entrance, and a specific area of the athletics building.

Then everything began to collapse.

The date listed was the Saturday of the Vermont game. You remembered it because you had spent most of that weekend sorting road footage from a freezing press box while Dean and the rest of the team were several hours away from campus.

The restricted corridor supposedly ran beside the east media suite.

There was no east media suite.

The submission included no photograph, recording, email, or name that could be verified. At the bottom, one final sentence had been written in capital letters.

POST THIS BEFORE ATHLETICS GETS TO YOU.

You clicked the reply option.

Dean was out of state on the date you provided. The location you named does not exist. Send proof or stop submitting allegations through this portal.

The response arrived less than a minute later.

You have the story. Use it.

You stared at the screen.

Most people who submitted gossip wanted attention. They enjoyed the possibility that their story might be featured, even when it involved something ridiculous or harmless.

This person did not want to entertain your listeners.

They wanted your voice attached to an accusation.

You took screenshots of the entire exchange, saved them inside the encrypted Briar Wire folder, and marked the submission as rejected.

Then you messaged Mara.

Someone sent me something weird about Dean. Serious weird, not Dennis weird.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Do you need me to call?

You had just started typing when your phone vibrated with a message from Camden.

Then another.

Then six more in rapid succession.

CAMDEN: Please tell me this is fake.

CAMDEN: Actually don't text. Call me.

CAMDEN: People are saying she deleted it.

CAMDEN: The school paper already reposted the accusation.

Your stomach dropped.

Mara's next messages appeared beneath his.

MARA: That is not your upload.

MARA: Someone used your voice.

MARA: Call me right now.

You opened the link Camden had sent.

The account posting it had copied Briar Wire's black-and-white branding almost perfectly. A fake screen recording showed the podcast logo, an upload time, and a progress bar moving beneath a flickering waveform. Whoever created it had even included a second timestamp that made it appear the audio had been deleted ten minutes later.

Bold lettering stretched across the caption.

DELETED BRIAR WIRE EXCLUSIVE

Below it, the account claimed Wire Girl had removed the segment after Briar Athletics threatened legal action.

You pressed play.

Your disguised voice filled the room.

"According to a source inside Briar Athletics, Dean Di Laurentis was caught after hours with the daughter of a major university donor."

For one disorienting second, your mind refused to understand what you were hearing.

Then you caught the seams.

According to a source came from an episode you recorded three weeks earlier about a stolen campus statue. Inside Briar Athletics had been taken from your coverage of the new training facility. Dean's full name came from last night's episode.

Every word belonged to you.

The sentence did not.

The clip continued assembling the allegation from scraps of old recordings. Static covered the worst transitions, making the uneven rhythm sound like damaged audio rather than something manufactured. Beneath it, someone had added a faint notification sound and the beginning of your usual intro music, details designed to make the recording feel complete.

To anyone listening casually, it was convincing.

The view count climbed by the hundreds while you watched.

Comments appeared too quickly to read. Students demanded that Dean be removed from the team. Others tagged the university president, the athletic director, and every account associated with Briar hockey. Elaine's full name was being posted beside accusations of corruption and deleted security footage.

A student account uploaded photographs of three young women whose fathers had donated to Briar, asking which one had been with Dean.

None of them had anything to do with the story.

Another post claimed Dean had already been suspended from Friday's game. A reply beneath it insisted the hockey team had been ordered not to speak publicly. Someone else claimed Garrett had helped Dean leave the building through a side exit.

The lies were multiplying faster than you could identify them.

You switched to the official athletics account.

The practice video you uploaded less than an hour earlier had been flooded with comments.

WHERE IS THE FOOTAGE?

HOW MUCH DID THE DONOR PAY YOU?

IS DEAN PLAYING FRIDAY?

ELAINE KNEW.

The clean, neutral statement you had worked so hard to get from him now sat beneath hundreds of demands for his suspension.

A breaking-news post from the student paper appeared at the top of your feed.

BRIAR WIRE AUDIO ALLEGES ATHLETICS COVER-UP INVOLVING HOCKEY STAR DEAN DI LAURENTIS.

They had embedded the fake recording.

Your phone began ringing.

Elaine.

You stared at her name until the call ended, unable to decide which version of yourself she was trying to reach. As far as Elaine knew, you were the student employee who had filmed Dean that afternoon. You could tell her the audio contained obvious cuts, but explaining that you knew the exact source of every stolen word would invite questions you could not answer.

She called again.

This time, it went to voicemail.

The notification appeared seconds later, and Elaine's voice came through your speaker, tight and controlled.

"Do not answer anyone from the paper. Do not respond from the athletics account. Call me as soon as you hear this."

Mara was still calling.

Camden had sent another string of messages.

CAMDEN: Wire Girl wouldn't post this without proof.

CAMDEN: At least I didn't think she would.

CAMDEN: They're saying athletics made her delete it.

CAMDEN: What the hell is happening?

That message hurt more than the others.

Camden believed in the podcast more fiercely than almost anyone you knew, and whoever made the recording had already done enough to make him question the person behind it.

A new message appeared inside the submission portal.

The same blank subject line.

You opened it with shaking fingers.

You had your chance.

Before you could respond, the screen refreshed.

Now they'll hear it anyway.

Your pulse hammered against your throat.

This had never been about getting the rumor published somewhere. The sender could have posted the accusation themselves at any time.

They wanted Briar Wire blamed for it.

They wanted your credibility attached to the lie, Elaine accused of burying it, and Dean placed at the center of something ugly enough that denying it would only make him look guilty.

Your phone continued vibrating against the desk. Elaine again. Mara again. A new email from the student paper requesting a statement from Briar Wire. Another from someone claiming to represent one of the donor families now being named online.

Then the call window opened across your computer.

UNKNOWN CALLER.

The words pulsed above the accept button.

You stared at them, unable to know whether the person on the other end was the anonymous submitter, a reporter, a student demanding answers, or someone who had found the number and wanted to threaten you.

The call kept ringing.

You pulled on your headphones, activated the voice filter, and accepted it.

"Briar Wire. You're on."

For the first time since you had heard him speak, Dean did not waste a second pretending to be charming.

"That wasn't you."

You moved past them toward the pickup counter, eyes on the little cardboard sleeve around your iced coffee like it held state secrets instead of your name spelled wrong in black marker. Y/N had become something entirely different, which felt fitting. Half your life existed under a fake name anyway.

Behind you, the first girl lowered her voice.

“I’m telling you, it was Dean Di Laurentis.”

You reached for your drink and pretended your fingers did not pause around the plastic cup.

“No way,” her friend said. “Dean wouldn’t sneak out the back of a football party.”

“That’s exactly why it was him. He’d want people to think he wouldn’t.”

“He’d make a speech before leaving.”

“He probably did.”

You bit the inside of your cheek before a smile could get you arrested by your own conscience.

The episode had gone up at midnight, like it always did on Thursdays, when most of campus was either procrastinating, drinking, making questionable decisions, or all three in a sequence they would later try to blame on stress. By eight that morning, Briar Wire had been clipped, quoted, and misquoted across group chats, team texts, and whatever terrifying corner of student life existed inside private Snapchat stories.

You had not named Dean.

You never named names unless something was already public enough that pretending not to know would be insulting. The whole point of Briar Wire was not to ruin people. It was to take the ridiculous little disasters students willingly sent in and turn them into something funny enough to make everyone feel briefly less alone in their terrible choices.

A hockey player crashing a football party he had not been invited to, allegedly arguing with a wide receiver over a girl neither of them was dating, then allegedly leaving through a side door when someone’s ex showed up and started asking questions?

That was not life-ruining.

That was campus folklore.

And technically, all you had said was, I’m not naming names, but if the designer jacket fits, maybe stop wearing it to parties you weren’t invited to.

People had filled in the rest.

Briar loved filling in the rest.

By the time you stepped outside, the September air had already warmed enough to take the bite out of the morning. Students crossed the quad in clusters, carrying coffees, backpacks, protein shakes, and the haunted expressions of people who had scheduled Friday classes because they once believed in personal growth.

A guy in a Briar football hoodie held his phone out to his friend as they passed.

“She said designer jacket. That’s Dean.”

His friend snorted. “Half the hockey team dresses like they’re trying to marry into old money.”

“Yeah, but Dean already has old money.”

“Exactly. He doesn’t have to try.”

You looked straight ahead and took a long sip of coffee to hide your face.

The nice thing about being a student producer for Briar Athletics Media was that people saw the camera before they saw you. You were the girl with the lens, the media badge, the laptop covered in stickers from radio stations and campus events.

You were around enough to be familiar, but not enough to be suspicious. Athletes talked over you. Coaches forgot you were in corners. Girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, roommates, and team managers all seemed to assume that if you were adjusting audio levels, you had stopped having ears.

It was incredible what people said in front of someone holding equipment.

It was also incredible what they submitted anonymously at two in the morning after half a bottle of cheap vodka and one badly timed breakup.

You cut across the quad toward the student union, weaving through the usual Friday crowd. Someone had chalked Briar Wire knows in purple outside the library entrance. Beneath it, someone else had written Dean did it in green.

A third person, in smaller letters, had added, Dean does everything.

You had to give them that one.

Inside the student union, the noise hit you all at once. Chairs scraping, blenders whining from the smoothie counter, someone laughing too loudly near the vending machines, someone else cursing at a printer that had apparently chosen violence.

Mara was already at your usual table, one boot looped around the leg of the chair beside her to keep anyone else from taking it. Her laptop sat open in front of her, untouched, while her iced latte made a slow ring of condensation on the table. She was watching the room more than she was watching her screen, which told you everything you needed to know before she said a word.

The student union had that particular Friday morning buzz to it, loud enough to feel harmless until you started catching pieces of sentences. Dean’s name floated from the smoothie counter. Someone near the vending machines was replaying a clip too loudly from their phone. A girl in a Briar sweatshirt said, “No, but the designer jacket thing had to be him,” and three people around her immediately started arguing like they had been there themselves.

Mara looked up when you reached the table. Her gaze moved over your face, then to your coffee, then past your shoulder toward the girls still dissecting the episode near the counter.

She did not say the name of the podcast.

She did not have to.

You sat down in the chair she had saved for you and slipped your camera bag beneath the table, keeping your face arranged into something neutral. It was harder than it should have been. There was a strange feeling that came with hearing people repeat your own words back to each other, like walking through campus with a match hidden in your pocket while everyone searched for the source of smoke.

Mara nudged your drink closer when you forgot to reach for it.

“Big morning,” she said quietly.

You took the coffee mostly to have something to do with your hands. Across the room, someone laughed at a line you had recorded alone in your dorm at one in the morning, and your stomach pulled tight in a way that was not exactly fear, but lived close enough to it.

Mara’s expression softened just enough for you to notice. “No one knows anything,” she said, her voice low under the noise of the union. “They’re just bored and loud.”

That was probably supposed to help. In its own Mara way, it did. She was the only person at Briar who knew why your pulse had picked up, the only person who understood that this was not just campus drama to you. It was a secret with a microphone, a fake email inbox, and a growing number of strangers trying to give it a face.

Across the union, Camden appeared with his iced matcha in one hand and his phone in the other, already wearing the expression he got whenever a mystery had taken over his morning.

He wore a cream sweater even though the weather had not earned sweaters yet. His curls were loose around his forehead, his gold rings flashing as he typed something with his thumb. Camden got dressed for class the way other people got dressed for dinner reservations, which would have been annoying if he did not also lend you lip balm, chargers, and emotional support with no questions asked.

Mara saw him coming and sighed into her latte.

“He knows something,” she said.

You glanced over. “Does he?”

“No,” she said. “But he thinks he does.”

Camden slid into the chair across from you both and set his phone on the table, screen-up. There was a notes app open with a messy list of names, majors, arrows, and several question marks. You caught communications, athletics, and girl from North Hall? before he angled it away.

“I think I know who runs Briar Wire,” he announced.

Your hand tightened around your coffee.

Mara did not look at you. That was how you knew she was trying very hard not to.

Camden tapped the screen. “Not completely. I have categories.”

“Of course you do,” Mara said.

“I’m being realistic. The host knows too much about athletics to be random. She knew about the football party before half the people there decided what story they were going with. She knows hockey, but she knows football too. That means she either works near athletes, dates athletes, lives with someone who dates athletes, or has one of those terrifying friend groups where everyone knows everything before it happens.”

You opened your laptop mostly to give yourself something to look at. “Maybe people submit things.”

“They submit details,” Camden said. “She knows what to do with them.”

That landed closer than you wanted it to.

Your screen reflected your face for half a second before the login page loaded. You looked normal enough. A little tired, maybe, but not guilty. Not like someone who had spent the morning walking through campus while strangers repeated her own jokes back to her.

“Maybe she’s just good at guessing,” you said.

Camden gave you a look. “That is what people say when they like someone they don’t know how to defend.”

Mara reached for her drink. “Or when they’re trying to eat breakfast without becoming part of your investigation.”

“I’m not investigating,” Camden said, then looked down at his phone. “Not officially.”

You almost smiled, but Camden was still scrolling, still looking at names and majors like the answer might be sitting there if he arranged the evidence neatly enough. He was enjoying it. That was the thing. Not because he wanted to hurt anyone. Camden loved a secret the way some people loved crossword puzzles. He liked the chase. The possibility of being right.

But you were starting to understand that being the answer to the puzzle felt different from solving one.

Mara understood it too.

“You ever think maybe she stays anonymous because people act like this?” she asked.

Camden’s thumb stilled. “Like what?”

“Like she’s not a person,” Mara said. “Like she’s a game.”

He looked up fully then.

For a second, the noise of the student union filled the space between all three of you. Someone laughed near the vending machines. A blender shrieked behind the smoothie counter. A group of guys in football hoodies pushed through the doors, still arguing about whether the hockey player from the episode had climbed out a window or simply “left with strategy.”

Camden’s face shifted, just slightly.

“I don’t want her ruined,” he said. “I just want to know.”

“That’s how people get ruined,” Mara said.

You kept your eyes on the laptop screen, even though it had dimmed from lack of use. The reflection staring back at you looked composed enough to pass. Maybe that was the worst part. You had gotten good at looking normal while other people held your secret in their hands and turned it over like something they had found on the sidewalk.

Camden closed the notes app.

“I wouldn’t tell people,” he said after a moment. “If I figured it out.”

Mara looked at him over the rim of her cup, not challenging exactly, but not letting him off easy either.

“I wouldn’t,” he said again, quieter. “I like knowing things. I don’t need everyone else to know that I know.”

That was such a Camden answer, half sweet and half absurd, that it loosened something in your chest.

“Besides,” he added, picking up his matcha, “if everyone found out who she was, the whole thing would get weird. People would start performing for her on purpose. The podcast would be dead by midterms.”

“There it is,” Mara said, dry but fond. “A moral stance, almost.”

Camden pointed his straw at her. “Growth is rarely tidy.”

Your laptop chimed before Mara could answer.

A new email slid into view at the top of your inbox.

Elaine Porter: Athletics meeting moved up. Arena by 10. Bring camera. Hockey feature.

You read it once.

Then again, because your brain seemed to believe the words might become less threatening if you stared at them long enough.

Mara noticed your face before you could smooth it out.

“Elaine?” she asked.

You nodded and angled the laptop enough for her to see the subject line.

“Hockey feature,” Mara read.

Camden’s attention sharpened immediately. “What hockey feature?”

You shut your laptop.

He blinked. “Rude.”

“Confidential.”

“Y/N, I saw four words.”

“And those are all you’re getting,” you said, sliding the laptop into your bag before he could lean any closer.

He glanced toward the student union windows, where a few hockey players were passing outside in Briar sweatshirts. Even through the glass, you could hear one of them laugh.

“If the feature is about Dean,” Camden said, less teasing now, “you have to tell me.”

“I don’t.”

“So it is about Dean.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You got quiet in a very Dean-specific way.”

Mara’s foot brushed yours beneath the table, light enough for Camden not to notice. When you looked at her, she gave you that quiet, steady look she got whenever the podcast stopped being funny for half a second.

“Text me after,” she said.

You nodded.

Camden, who had the terrible gift of sensing when people were leaving and choosing that exact moment to become impossible, added, “And if Dean brings up the party, I want the wording.”

“I’m not collecting statements for you.”

“You literally collect statements for a living.”

“I collect approved quotes for Briar Athletics.”

“Then approve one for me!”

Mara said his name, low enough that you almost missed it.

Camden settled back, but the interest stayed on his face. “Fine. I’m only saying that if he did use a side door, that matters.”

Your fingers tightened around your camera bag strap.

“What?”

“Back door implies panic,” Camden said. “Side door implies planning.”

You stared at him.

Mara stared too, but for an entirely different reason.

Across campus, you had already heard three versions of the story. None of them had mentioned a side door. That detail had been in the original submission, the part you had changed on air because saying too much would have made it easier to track.

You forced your voice flat. “You sound like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Camden only shrugged, unbothered. “All I’m saying is, the wording matters.”

You gave him one last look, then adjusted your camera bag on your shoulder. “I have to go.”

“Text me if he confirms anything,” he called after you.

“He won’t.”

Camden smiled down at his drink. “People always confirm something!”

By the time you pushed through the doors and stepped back into the September sun, your phone buzzed again with another email from Elaine.

Also, please tell me you saw the Briar Wire episode before everyone starts asking you about it.

You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, read it twice, and breathed out through your nose.

Then you typed back:

I heard enough. On my way.

The arena was colder than the rest of campus, even from the outside. It always felt like the building had its own weather system. The closer you got, the more the ordinary sounds of Briar thinned out behind you: bikes clicking over pavement, students talking in clusters, someone blasting music from a dorm window with no concern for taste or volume.

Inside, the air changed. Cleaner. Sharper. Threaded with the permanent scent of ice and equipment that no amount of industrial cleaner could fully erase.

Briar Athletics Media lived in the back hallway between the rink offices and the storage room where old tripods went to die. It was not glamorous, but it was yours in the way campus jobs became yours after enough late nights. You knew which outlet sparked if you plugged in the ring light too fast. You knew which desk drawer had extra batteries and which one only had granola bar wrappers from last semester. You knew the printer jammed when it sensed weakness.

Elaine was waiting near the media room doorway, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other, her hair twisted up in a clip that looked like it had been added during a crisis. She was in her early thirties, which made her ancient by campus standards and young by the standards of everyone she answered to. She had the calm, focused exhaustion of a person who knew exactly how many fires could be put out before lunch and had already exceeded the number.

“There you are,” she said.

“I’m four minutes early.”

“Emotionally, you’re late.”

“That sounds like a personal issue.”

“It became a department issue at eight sixteen this morning.” She held up her phone.

On the screen was a paused clip from Briar Wire, someone’s repost of the line about the designer jacket. The caption underneath read:

DEAN DI LAURENTIS YOU HAVE 24 HOURS TO RESPOND.

Your stomach tightened.

Elaine studied your face. “You listen to this thing?”

“Everyone listens.”

“That is the answer people give when they do not want to answer.”

“It’s still true.”

She sighed like she had been waiting all morning for someone to disappoint her in a new way. “The administration is pretending not to know about it, which means they know. Hockey is pretending not to care, which means they care. Football is pretending they did not let hockey players into their party, which means they absolutely did.”

“Sounds like everyone has a full schedule.”

“And we are going to redirect the attention.”

You did not like the way she said redirect. It sounded like a word adults used right before handing you work they already knew would ruin your week.

Elaine passed you the clipboard.

At the top was a printed outline with Beyond the Rink typed in bold.

Below that:

Episode One: Dean Di Laurentis.

You looked up slowly. “No.”

Elaine did not blink. “Yes.”

“No, thank you.”

“That would work better if this were optional.”

“I have concerns.”

“I have several. We’ll trade later.”

You looked back down at the page. Interview questions. B-roll list. Practice footage. Casual campus shots. A short personal segment. A line about leadership, which made you wonder if Elaine had ever met Dean Di Laurentis for more than thirty seconds.

“Why him?”

“Because Dean gets views,” Elaine said. “Because he is comfortable on camera. Because he doesn’t freeze when someone points a lens at him. Because if I let Coach choose, we’ll get seven minutes about discipline, forechecking, and protein intake.”

“That sounds peaceful.”

“That sounds god-awful.”

You could not argue there.

Elaine tucked the clipboard back against her chest. “You’re good with athletes who know they’re being watched. You don’t buy into the performance, but you don’t punish them for it either.”

That was almost funny, considering Dean’s performance had already spent the morning following you across campus in sound bites and chalk messages.

“I need ten minutes of interview footage today,” Elaine said. “Some practice B-roll. Maybe a hallway walk-and-talk if he behaves.”

“That’s a large maybe.”

“Start with the interview.”

Before you could respond, laughter came from the hall that led to the locker rooms. Not loud enough to be obnoxious, but familiar in the way some sounds became familiar by repetition. You had heard Dean laugh in the background of too many clips, too many post-game hallways, too many celebrations where he was not even the focus and still somehow ended up in frame.

He appeared a second later with two teammates, coffee in hand, Briar Hockey sweatshirt sleeves pushed to his forearms. His hair was still damp, like he had showered after morning skate and run his hands through it once before deciding that was good enough for the day. One of his teammates was grinning at something he had just said. The other looked like he had already heard the joke twice and still found it funny, which was probably Dean’s real talent.

He was mid-conversation when he walked in, his voice carrying into the media hallway like he had not considered the possibility of privacy.

“I’m not saying the story is wrong,” Dean said. “I’m saying it lacks context.”

His teammate laughed. “You want context now?”

“I’ve always valued context.”

“You told Ryan to stop texting like a man with a head injury.”

“That was a medical concern.”

The other guy shook his head, still laughing. “It was a group chat.”

“Then I was spreading awareness.”

Elaine looked at you.

You looked back at her.

Absolutely not, you thought.

Dean noticed you then. His eyes flicked to your camera bag, then to the clipboard in Elaine’s hand, then back to your face. Recognition sparked, not personal exactly, but professional. He had seen you around the rink before. Most athletes had. They knew you the way people knew exit signs, necessary when needed and otherwise part of the background.

Today, unfortunately, you were not going to be background.

Elaine stepped forward. “Dean. Perfect timing.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for years.”

“We’re starting the new player feature series today. Y/N will be producing your segment.”

Dean’s attention returned to you with more interest.

“Y/N,” he said, like he was testing the name once before deciding what to do with it.

You held out one hand because professionalism, even in the face of a man currently being discussed in half the campus group chats, was still technically your job.

“Hi.”

He shook your hand. His palm was warm from the coffee cup, his grip easy, not the exaggerated kind guys used when they thought firmness could double as personality.

“Hi,” he said. “Are you here to repair my image?”

“I’m here to film it.”

His smile came fast, the kind that probably worked on professors, donors, and anyone with a functioning nervous system. It was annoying to discover you were not immune so much as determined.

Elaine checked something off on her clipboard. “We need a short intro interview today. No party questions.”

Dean turned to her. “I feel like I deserve a chance to defend myself.”

“You’re not on trial.”

“That is how trials start.”

Elaine pointed toward the small interview room. “Ten minutes. Keep it clean.”

One of Dean’s teammates made a sound under his breath, not quite a laugh. “Not what Ryan said about the party.”

Dean glanced back at him. “Ryan called a side entrance a back door. His credibility is gone.”

Your fingers paused on the strap of your camera bag.

A side entrance.

Camden would have levitated out of his chair.

Elaine only pinched the bridge of her nose. “Room three. Now.”

The two teammates disappeared toward the rink, still laughing. Dean stayed where he was, attention shifting back to you.

“So,” he said, “how much creative control do I get?”

“None.”

“I can respect that.”

Elaine had already turned away, finished with both of you. “Y/N, send me the raw clips when you’re done.”

You nodded and led the way down the hall before Dean could decide to respect anything else.

Room three was barely a room. It was more of a storage closet. There were two folding chairs, a tripod, a small Briar Athletics banner on the wall, and one window that looked directly into another hallway.

You set up the camera while Dean wandered in behind you and looked around.

“This is intimate,” he said.

“It’s a repurposed closet.”

You snapped the camera onto the tripod and adjusted the height. Dean sat in the chair you pointed to, then shifted once under the fluorescent light, trying to get comfortable on a seat that had been purchased by someone who hated spines.

“You’re not going to ask about the party,” he said.

“No.”

“Not even off the record?”

You looked at him over the camera. “Do you know what that means?”

“I understand it deeply.”

You adjusted the focus to keep your mouth from giving you away. “This is for Athletics, not Briar Wire.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could pull them back.

Dean’s eyes sharpened.

Not enough to look suspicious. Enough to notice.

“So you do listen,” he said.

You kept your fingers on the camera. “Everyone listens.”

“That’s what people keep telling me.”

“Maybe because it’s true.”

Dean looked toward the lens, then back at you. “Funny, considering the podcast has never actually named me.”

“And yet you seem pretty sure it was about you.”

His mouth curved, but it did not quite turn into a smile. “That’s the strange part, isn’t it?”

The camera beeped softly when you hit record.

“State your name, year, and position.”

Dean sat up with enough exaggerated obedience that you already knew the first take would be unusable.

“Dean Di Laurentis. Junior. Forward. Victim of implied journalism.”

You let the silence sit.

He looked at you.

You looked back.

Finally, he exhaled. “Fine.”

You reset the clip.

He gave the answer properly the second time, which somehow annoyed you more than if he had made it difficult. Dean was not stupid. That was the problem with people like him. Everyone treated them like they were all charm and no structure, and sometimes they let people think that because it was easier. Then they turned around and did exactly what was needed the moment it mattered.

You moved through the basic questions. Favorite part of playing at Briar. Best memory with the team. What game-day routine he refused to give up. He gave you enough polished answers for the official cut, then enough ridiculous ones that you knew Elaine would make you delete them and you would probably save them anyway.

Halfway through, you asked, “What do you think people get wrong about you?”

Dean looked toward the camera, then away from it.

The pause was small, but you caught it. You always caught pauses. Audio taught you that people lied most clearly in the space before they spoke.

“That I don’t notice,” he said.

You waited.

His mouth tipped like he almost regretted giving you a real answer.

“People think I don’t notice what they assume about me,” he continued. “I do.”

There was no joke at the end of it.

For a second, the room felt too still.

You glanced down at the question list in your lap, though you had stopped needing it three questions ago. “Does that bother you?”

He looked at you then.

The easy answer would have been no. A shrug. A joke. Something about being too attractive to suffer. You could almost see him considering it.

Then he said, “Depends who’s doing the assuming.”

That was too good for the athletics page.

That was also too honest for a Friday morning with a camera between you.

You looked at the tiny red recording light and felt, briefly and strangely, like it was looking back.

Dean cleared his throat, and the moment shifted before either of you had to do anything with it.

“Was that tragic enough for the feature?”

“Elaine might cry.”

“Good. I’ve been trying to expand my range.”

You stopped the recording before you smiled. “We’re done.”

“That’s it?”

“For the interview.”

“I had more to give.”

“I’m sure you did.”

He stood, then lingered while you packed the camera. You could feel him still in the room, not crowding you, just present in a way that made the space feel smaller than it had before.

At the door, he paused.

“For the record,” he said, “I didn’t sneak out.”

You zipped the camera bag. “I didn’t ask.”

“I left through a side entrance. Walked, actually.”

You looked up at him.

He looked oddly satisfied, as if this settled everything.

“A side entrance,” you repeated.

“Different thing.”

“It sounds like the same exact thing.”

Dean’s smile widened despite himself. “That is exactly how reputations get ruined.”

It should have been nothing. A throwaway line in a room with bad lighting and a camera between you. But Dean was looking at you like he had found something more interesting than the interview, and for one stupid second, you forgot what you were supposed to be doing.

You picked up your bag before the silence could turn into anything else. “I have to get these clips to Elaine.”

“Right.” He stepped aside. “Wouldn’t want to keep the official story waiting.”

By late afternoon, the campus had only gotten worse.

Briar Wire was everywhere. Someone had taped a printed screenshot of the episode quote to the bulletin board outside the communications building. A hockey player you recognized from sophomore year passed you on the quad while arguing into his phone that Dean had definitely been at the football party but absolutely would not have climbed through a window, because Dean did not “do undignified exits.” At the dining hall, Camden had apparently posted a poll in the group chat asking whether Briar Wire’s host was more likely to be a communications major, an athlete’s ex, or someone hiding in plain sight.

Mara texted you a screenshot with no comment.

Then, thirty seconds later:

Mara: I did not vote.

You replied:

You: That feels worse than voting.

Mara: I’m preserving the integrity of the investigation.

You: You’re enjoying this.

Mara: A little.

You stared at your phone in the athletics media room while Dean’s interview files uploaded painfully slowly to the shared drive. His face was frozen on your screen in the middle of an answer, one hand lifted, mouth half-open, looking less like Briar’s favorite rumor and more like a guy who had accidentally said something real and immediately tried to outrun it.

People think I don’t notice what they assume about me.

You hated that you had kept thinking about it, and hated even more that you understood.

People assumed things about you too. Not loudly, not cruelly most of the time. They assumed you were quiet because you were shy. Responsible because you liked rules. Good with cameras because you preferred hiding behind them. They assumed that if you did not fight to be the center of the room, you had no interest in the room at all.

Briar Wire had been the first thing you built that did not ask permission to take up space.

And now everyone wanted to know who built it.

By the time you got back to your dorm, the sun had dropped low enough to turn the windows gold. Your roommate was gone for the weekend, which meant the room was yours. No small talk. No questions. No one asking why you were setting up your microphone at your desk or why your closet had a shoebox full of index cards labeled by episode number.

You changed into a sweatshirt, clipped your hair away from your face, and opened your laptop.

The Briar Wire inbox was a mess.

Some messages were insightful. A freshman had submitted a story about a fake ID getting confiscated by someone’s own older brother, which had potential. Someone else wanted advice about hooking up with their lab partner and then discovering they had been assigned a semester-long project together, which was less a submission and more a cry for help.

There were twelve messages about Dean.

Four claimed to have proof he was the football party hockey player. Two claimed he was innocent. Three were not remotely helpful but extremely passionate. One simply read:

I don’t care if he did it. Can he call in?

You snorted and took a screenshot for Mara.

Her reply came instantly.

Mara: Do not manifest that.

You were still smiling when the call window opened.

Unknown Caller.

Your smile faded.

Briar Wire did not take many live calls. You had a number people could use for voice submissions, but most came in as recordings. Live calls were harder to manage. Too unpredictable. Too easy for someone to say a name you would have to cut or reveal something you did not want in your ears in real time.

The window pulsed on your screen.

Unknown Caller.

You should have ignored it, which was probably why you put on your headphones instead.

The room seemed to quiet around you as you opened the recording software. The little red button appeared in the corner, waiting. Your heartbeat was too present, too close to the surface.

You accepted the call.

“Briar Wire,” you said, letting your podcast voice settle into place. Lower than your normal voice. Warmer. More controlled. “You’re on.”

There was a brief silence.

Then a male voice said, with far too much confidence for someone pretending to be anonymous, “Hi. Long-time listener, first-time caller. My name is Dennis.”

You closed your eyes.

Dean Di Laurentis.

Of course.

Of course he had chosen Dennis.

You muted yourself and pressed your fingers over your mouth, not because you were laughing, exactly, but because your body had chosen a reaction and none of the options were safe.

On the other end, Dean cleared his throat.

“I’m calling on behalf of a friend,” he said.

You unmuted yourself.

“A friend.”

“He values privacy.”

“Says the man calling a campus podcast.”

“I’m not the friend. I’m Dennis.”

“Right.”

“I feel like you don’t believe me.”

“Dennis, I believe in a lot of things. This is not one of them.”

His laugh came through the headphones before he could stop it. Brief. Unpolished. Not for an audience.

It caught you off guard more than it should have.

“My friend feels misrepresented,” he said once he recovered.

“Does your friend often attend parties he claims he was invited to through men named Matt?”

Silence.

You felt it the second it happened. Not a dead silence. A listening one.

“How do you know about Matt?”

You stared at the waveform jumping across the screen.

“Lucky guess,” you said.

“There are a lot of Matts on the football team.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“That’s not the same as knowing one invited me.”

You sat very still.

“Did I say you?”

Another silence.

Then Dean laughed again, lower this time, like he had been caught and did not entirely mind.

“Dennis,” he corrected.

“Yes,” you said. “Dennis.”

“Dennis’s friend was invited.”

“And yet Dennis’s friend left through a side entrance.”

He went quiet again.

This time, you smiled before you could stop yourself.

“How do you know about the side entrance?” he asked.

You glanced at the red recording dot, the tiny signal that this was all being saved somewhere. Every pause. Every slip. Every little edge in his voice when he realized you knew more than you should have.

“Maybe I have sources.”

“Do your sources have names?”

“Maybe.”

“Would one of them be Matt?”

You leaned back in your chair. “You called me, Dennis.”

“To seek justice.”

You should have ended the call then. You had enough for the next episode already. More than enough. Dean Di Laurentis pretending to be someone named Dennis while arguing about the architecture of his exit would carry the entire campus through at least Tuesday.

But the line stayed open.

So did you.

“My friend wants a correction,” he said.

“For what?”

“The record should reflect that he did not sneak out. He left.”

“Through a side entrance.”

“With dignity.”

You looked at the red recording dot blinking on your screen and let the silence do the work for you.

Dean laughed under his breath. “You’re kind of mean, Wire Girl.”

Wire Girl.

It was ridiculous. Barely even a nickname. Still, your fingers paused against the desk like it had reached across the line and touched something it shouldn’t have.

“You called me,” you said.

“To defend an innocent man.”

“To defend yourself.”

A pause.

Then, amused, “I never said it was me.”

“No,” you said. “You just made it very easy to guess.”

For a moment, the call went quiet. Outside your door, someone laughed down the hall, normal life carrying on a few feet away while Dean Di Laurentis sat somewhere on campus pretending to be a stranger.

Then he said, “Who are you?”

Your hand stilled.

There it was. The question everyone at Briar had been asking all morning.

“That would ruin the show,” you said.

“Not for me.”

“Especially for you.”

You heard his smile before he spoke again. “I can keep secrets.”

“Goodnight, Dennis.”

Then you ended the call.

For a moment, you just sat there, headphones on, staring at the recording file as it saved automatically to your laptop.

Then your phone buzzed.

Mara: I felt a disturbance.

You looked at the file name.

UNKNOWN CALLER 7:42 PM

Your fingers moved over the screen.

You: Dean called in.

The dots appeared immediately.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then:

Mara: Tell me you did not answer.

You looked at the microphone. At the red light. At the saved audio file that now contained Dean Di Laurentis pretending to be a man named Dennis and asking who you were like he had a right to know.

You typed back:

You: I answered.

Mara’s reply came so fast it looked angry.

Mara: Tell me you at least recorded it.

You glanced at the file again.

Despite the nerves still moving through you, despite the rules, despite the fact that Dean had gotten closer to the truth in one phone call than anyone else had managed in eight episodes, you smiled.

You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.

He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.

You: Are you coming in early today?

JA ❤️: Always.

You quickly typed out another message.

You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible

The reply came almost instantly.

JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.

You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.

JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.

You: are you psychic?

JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.

Your smile widened as his reply came through.

You: thank u 🩷

JA ❤️: 👍

“What are you smiling at?”

You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.

“What?”

“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”

“Nothing.”

Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.

Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”

“What?”

“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.

“That?” Whitaker supplied.

“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”

You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.

“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”

Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”

You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”

Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”

Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."

You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.

“Never give your triggers away Santos.”

“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.

You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.

You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.

“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.

“You all good?”

“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”

“Not for a little while.”

“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”

“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”

You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”

Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”

You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”

“Apparently so.”

You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.

Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.

“Hey.”

You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.

“What?” You asked warily.

Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”

“The what?”

Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.

“Absolute smoke show.”

Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”

Your brows knitted together.

“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.

“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.

You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.

At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.

And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.

“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.

You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.

Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.

Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.

“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”

By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.

“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”

Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.

“Well I’ll be.”

That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.

“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”

Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.

“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”

“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”

“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.

He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.

"Someone has to."

Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.

“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.

"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.

“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.

“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.

Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"

Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.

"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"

"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"

"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."

McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.

"No." McKay shook her head.

"Yes."

“You don’t seriously think….” Whitaker trailed off.

“Oh I do” Santos nodded. “I really do.”

Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”

You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.

“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”

You snorted. “Please.”

“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”

You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”

He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."

He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”

You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”

“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."

"No."

"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”

“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”

"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.

“Wait let me guess.”

Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.

His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”

He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”

From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”

Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.

Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.

For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.

Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”

Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.

“I’m right."

You didn't answer.

"I am."

“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”

“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”

“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”

Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."

"He also has excellent aim."

"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."

And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.

"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.

“You’re happy?”

You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.

“I am.”

“He good to you?"

You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”

For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.

You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”

“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.

"So the usual then?"

“The usual.”

He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”

“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."

Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”

“Sloan.”

The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.

Mark's grin returned instantly.

“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.

"A lot less hair since I last saw you."

Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”

Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.

Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.

“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”

“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”

“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”

Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.

“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”

Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”

McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”

“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.

Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”

The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."

Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.

“You two know eachother?”

“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.

“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.

Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”

You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.

“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“

“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."

Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."

“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”

Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.

You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.

He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.

"Ex?"

You sighed. "...Ex."

Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”

“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”

Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.

You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.

“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.

Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.

You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.

When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.

“Don’t you dare say a word.”

She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”

You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.

For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.

By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.

“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”

You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.

“The old lady with the chest pain?”

“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.

You frowned. "That sucks."

“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.

“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."

Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”

Your eyes narrowed.

"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.

"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."

"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.

"I hate all of you."

Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"

Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.

You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.

You waited a couple minutes before moving.

The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.

A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So… that’s your ex.”

“That’s my ex.”

He nodded. "You left out a few details."

"Such as?"

His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.

“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"

Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."

Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”

“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”

“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”

“You’re not.” You insisted.

Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.

You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”

“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.

Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.

"Jack."

"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”

You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.

“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.

“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.

“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”

You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”

Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.

“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”

His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”

“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”

The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”

“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”

His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”

Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.

“Well, lucky for him it worked.”

The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.

He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.

“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”

You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”

“Yes.” He answered plainly.

You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”

Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.

“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”

You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”

Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”

Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.

“Did you eat?”

You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”

Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”

“I will.”

“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”

Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”

“Of course.”

You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”

His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.

“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.

You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”

You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.

“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”

Jack raised a brow.

“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”

“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.

“I know I am.”

“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.

You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.

Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.

Beau followed your gaze toward the three burning wicks. He had positioned the jar in the center of the dresser, the label facing outward, which made his attempt at looking indifferent considerably less convincing.

“You made me smell it every time we passed that store,” he said, moving around you to place his phone beside the speaker. “At some point, remembering became a survival instinct.”

You stepped farther into the room and lifted the candle, warmth gathering beneath the glass. The price sticker had been scraped from the bottom badly enough that part of it remained attached.

The thought of Beau standing inside Bath & Body Works, surrounded by walls of perfume and lotion while trying to remember the name of your favorite scent, made something tender settle beneath your ribs.

“You went in there alone?”

His attention became absorbed in adjusting the volume of the music. “I’m not discussing what happened in that store.”

A soft song drifted from the speaker, one you had sent him months ago after discovering it during a late-night study session. You set the candle down and glanced toward his phone. Spotify remained open, displaying a playlist titled just music in lowercase letters.

You picked it up before Beau could stop you.

His hand reached toward yours, but one look at your face made him reconsider whatever wrestling match he had been about to begin.

The playlist was nearly two hours long. There were songs you loved, slower ones you had heard playing from his car, and a few romantic tracks that you never would have guessed Beau knew existed. The order was too deliberate to be accidental. Each song flowed naturally into the next, the tempo shifting so gradually that he must have listened through the entire thing while arranging it.

“You planned transitions.”

Beau rubbed the back of his neck, already turning pink near the collar of his shirt. “I didn’t want some awful locker room song coming on and ruining everything.”

A laugh caught in your throat. “Beau, you made a sex playlist.”

“I made a playlist for tonight.”

The distinction seemed important to him, though you suspected it existed mostly because he could not bring himself to name a playlist after the reason you were in his bedroom.

You looked around again. Fresh sheets. Your favorite candle. Two bottles of water waiting on the nightstand. Even the lamp had been dimmed low enough to soften the room without leaving you in darkness.

All afternoon, you had been imagining Beau completely at ease while you struggled not to overthink every part of the night. It had never occurred to you that he might spend hours cleaning his room and rearranging songs because he was nervous too.

The realization loosened something inside you.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

His expression changed when he looked at you. The embarrassment remained, but something more earnest moved beneath it.

“I know.” Beau took the phone from your hand and set it down without turning off the music. “I wanted to.”

He said it simply, without turning the moment into something so serious that you would lose your nerve. That was one of the things you loved most about him. Beau could make something matter without making it feel heavy.

You moved toward him, slipping your hands beneath his open jacket. “The candle is a lot.”

“It was the biggest one they had.”

Your smile brushed his mouth before you kissed him.

Beau’s hands settled on your hips, drawing you closer until the front of your body met his. The kiss began softly, familiar enough to quiet the nervous flutter in your stomach. You knew the shape of his mouth and the warmth of his hands. You knew the small sound he made when you caught his bottom lip between yours and the way his fingers tightened whenever you pressed against him.

There was nothing unfamiliar about wanting him.

It was everything that came next that had occupied your thoughts since you told him you were ready.

Beau seemed to sense the moment your mind began racing. He pulled back only far enough to look at you, one hand rising to smooth your hair away from your face.

“You’re thinking too much.”

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“You get this little crease right here.” His thumb passed between your eyebrows, flattening the expression he had apparently learned to recognize. “It’s like your brain is trying to go into overtime.”

You laughed, lowering your forehead against his chest. “I’m nervous.”

“I know.”

He did not tell you there was no reason to be. There were reasons, even if none of them meant you had changed your mind. You had spent years hearing that your first time would be painful or awkward or disappointing. People spoke about virginity as something to lose, something another person took from you, and no matter how much you trusted Beau, part of you had started treating tonight like a test you had forgotten to study for.

His hand moved slowly along your back.

“We can keep kissing,” he said. “We can watch a movie and let the world’s most embarrassing playlist run in the background. You didn’t sign a contract when you came over.”

The offer did not come with disappointment hidden beneath it. Beau would genuinely let you change your mind, blow out the candle, and spend the rest of the evening arguing over what to watch.

That certainty was exactly why you had chosen tonight.

You lifted your head and kissed him again.

This time, you let your hands wander beneath his shirt. The muscles of his stomach tightened under your fingertips, and Beau exhaled against your mouth before helping you pull the fabric over his head. He tossed it somewhere behind him, apparently deciding that his clean floor no longer mattered.

Your jacket followed, then your shoes. Each piece of clothing made the room feel warmer, though you knew some of that heat came from the way Beau looked at you.

He had seen you in your underwear before. You had spent enough nights tangled together for him to know how your body reacted beneath his hands, but tonight made every touch feel newly charged. When he reached for the hem of your sweater, he paused long enough for you to lift your arms.

The fabric disappeared over your head.

Beau’s gaze moved over you without rushing, lingering where the cups of your bra held your breasts. There was no exaggerated praise or dramatic speech. His hand simply settled against your waist while he kissed the curve of your shoulder, and the warmth of his mouth told you everything he had not said.

You reached behind yourself to unfasten your bra, but Beau caught your wrist.

“Let me.”

The clasp opened beneath his fingers. He eased the straps down your arms, watching the fabric fall before bringing both hands to your breasts. His palms were warm, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened beneath his touch.

Your breath caught when his mouth closed around one.

Beau backed you toward the bed without lifting his head, his arm circling your waist when the backs of your knees met the mattress. You sat down, and he followed, settling between your thighs while his tongue moved slowly over your nipple.

Your fingers slid into his hair. The nerves had not vanished, but they were being replaced by something stronger. Every pull of his mouth and every stroke of his hand reminded your body that this was Beau. He already knew what made your back arch and what made your thighs squeeze around him. He had never rushed you before, and he was not about to begin now.

He kissed down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your skirt.

His eyes lifted to yours as his fingers found the zipper.

You nodded, and Beau drew it down.

The skirt slipped over your hips with your help, leaving you in the underwear you had spent far too long choosing. They were prettier than anything you normally wore, a soft scrap of lace that had made you feel bold while standing in front of your mirror and extremely exposed now that Beau could see them.

The look on his face made the effort worthwhile.

“Those are new.”

You tried not to smile. “Maybe.”

His fingertips skimmed the lace along your hip. “You bought special underwear, but I’m the one getting judged for a candle?”

Beau leaned over you, pressing a kiss to your stomach before you could continue dismantling his defense. His laughter warmed your skin.

“You’re distracting yourself again.”

The words were softened by another kiss, then another, his mouth moving lower until it hovered above the waistband of your underwear.

Your teasing faded.

Beau curled his fingers beneath the lace and drew it down your legs. You lifted your hips, watching him remove the final piece of clothing before his hands moved along your thighs.

Being completely naked beneath him should have made you feel more nervous. Instead, Beau lowered himself between your legs with such familiar hunger that embarrassment barely had time to form.

He kissed the inside of your knee, then followed the path upward.

Your fingers tightened around the comforter when his mouth reached the crease of your thigh. His breath passed over your center, warm enough to make your hips shift toward him.

Beau glanced up at you.

There was affection in his expression, but there was desire too. He did not look at you as though tonight had turned you into something delicate. He looked at you the same way he always did when he wanted you, only more intensely, as though the trust you had placed in him had deepened every part of it.

His arm hooked beneath your thigh, opening you wider before his tongue slid through you.

Your head sank into the pillows.

The first stroke was broad and slow, gathering the wetness already beginning to collect before his tongue returned to your clit. Beau had eaten you out before, enough times to know exactly how much pressure made your breath catch and how quickly your body became sensitive.

Tonight, he took even more time.

He licked you until your thighs relaxed around his shoulders, alternating soft circles with slow passes that made warmth gather low in your stomach. Each time your hips began moving against his mouth, his hand pressed gently over your abdomen, not holding you still so much as grounding you against the bed.

The music continued somewhere beyond the rush of blood in your ears.

Beau’s fingers moved over the inside of your thigh, giving you enough time to register what he was doing before one pressed slowly into you.

The sensation was familiar. He had touched you this way before, but the purpose behind it made you more aware of every inch. His finger entered gradually while his tongue stayed against your clit, and your body opened around him with less resistance than you had feared.

He worked it deeper, curling it against the spot that made your legs tighten.

“Beau.”

He answered with a low sound against you, the vibration making your stomach clench.

Your fingers threaded through his hair as he began moving his hand. The pace remained unhurried, each stroke paired with the steady movement of his mouth. Pleasure built gradually until you stopped wondering whether you were relaxed enough or doing anything correctly.

There was only his tongue, his finger, and the tightening pressure that made you lift your hips from the mattress.

Beau waited until you were slick around him before easing a second finger alongside the first.

The stretch was noticeable. Your body tightened instinctively, and his hand stilled while his mouth softened against you. He did not retreat or force you to adjust faster. He kept licking slowly, letting pleasure work through the unfamiliar fullness until your grip loosened in his hair.

His fingers pressed deeper.

You exhaled shakily, the initial pressure fading as he began curling them inside you. The sensation was fuller than what you were accustomed to, but Beau’s tongue remained focused on your clit, keeping discomfort from becoming the center of your attention.

Soon, the stretch became part of the pleasure.

Your thighs trembled around his head. Beau moved his fingers with a steady rhythm, spreading them slightly each time he drew them back before pressing them into you again. He watched your face from between your legs, adjusting whenever your breathing changed.

The orgasm gathered faster than you expected.

You felt it in the tightening of your stomach and the way your body began chasing both his hand and his mouth. Beau knew it too. His fingers curled more firmly while his tongue flicked over your clit, refusing to let the pressure fade.

Your back arched.

The climax broke through you in a rush, your fingers gripping his hair as your thighs closed around his shoulders. Beau kept his mouth against you while you came, drawing out every pulse with slow movements of his fingers until the pleasure sharpened into sensitivity.

You tugged lightly at his hair.

He lifted his head, his mouth wet and his eyes dark.

The sight of him between your thighs sent another weak contraction through you.

Beau withdrew his fingers slowly, then kissed the inside of your leg before moving back up your body. He braced himself over you, and you barely had time to notice the shine on his mouth before he kissed you.

You tasted yourself on his tongue.

The kiss was deeper than the ones before, your hands moving over his bare back while his hips settled between your thighs. His jeans were still on, the hard length of him pressing against you through the denim.

You reached down and fumbled with his belt.

Beau’s mouth curved against yours. “Still nervous?”

“Yes,” you admitted, opening the buckle. “I also want you.”

The humor left his expression, replaced by something so warm and intent that you had to kiss him before you became overwhelmed by it.

He helped you with the button, then stood long enough to remove his jeans and boxers. Your gaze dropped despite yourself.

You had felt him through his clothes before. You had touched him with your hand, had even wrapped your lips around him once, but seeing him completely naked while knowing he was about to be inside you made the reality settle differently.

Beau was thick enough to make your stomach flutter.

He noticed where you were looking and climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself beside you rather than immediately settling between your legs.

“We’re not in a hurry.”

You nodded.

He opened the nightstand and removed a condom and a small bottle of lubricant. Of course he had both waiting. Beau had apparently planned the evening down to every possible detail, though you decided not to tease him when he squeezed some lubricant onto his fingers and touched you again.

The coolness made you flinch before his fingers warmed it against your entrance.

He worked one into you, followed by the second, moving them slowly while kissing you. Your body remained loose from the orgasm, taking him more easily now. Beau stretched you with patient strokes, his thumb brushing over your clit whenever your breath caught.

When he removed his hand, the emptiness left you aching.

Beau opened the condom and rolled it down his length. His movements were steady, but you saw the tension in his jaw and realized he was holding himself together more tightly than he wanted you to know.

He settled between your legs.

The head of his cock brushed against you, slick with lubricant. Your breath stopped as he dragged it slowly through your wetness before positioning himself at your entrance.

Beau leaned down, supporting himself on one arm while his other hand rested against your hip.

“Look at me.”

You met his gaze.

“If you want me to stop, I stop. It doesn’t matter how far we get.”

You nodded again, but Beau waited.

“I’ll tell you.”

He kissed you, slow and lingering, before beginning to press inside.

The first stretch was more intense than his fingers. Your body tightened around the broad head, and Beau stopped immediately, barely inside you.

Your hands gripped his shoulders.

He stayed close, kissing the corner of your mouth while his thumb moved along your hip. The pressure burned slightly, not unbearable but sharp enough that your instincts told you to tense against it.

“Breathe for me,” Beau murmured against your cheek.

You took a slow breath. Then another.

He did not move until your thighs loosened around him. When you shifted your hips experimentally, the pressure changed, becoming fuller rather than painful.

You pulled him closer.

Beau pushed forward another inch.

The stretch returned, but this time you were ready for it. He moved slowly, pausing whenever your expression tightened, letting your body adjust around each part of him before going deeper.

His arms trembled faintly from the effort of holding himself still.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” You slid your hands from his shoulders to the back of his neck. “Keep going.”

Beau pressed his forehead against yours as he eased farther inside.

The fullness seemed endless at first. Your body resisted, then gradually yielded, opening around him until his hips finally met yours. A quiet sound escaped him when he was fully seated, his eyes closing briefly as your walls tightened around his cock.

He stayed motionless.

You felt every part of him, the thick stretch and the weight of his body held above yours. The initial sting remained, but it was fading beneath the warmth of his skin and the slow circles his thumb traced against your hip.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

Beau opened his eyes. “I’m trying very hard not to ruin all my excellent preparation by losing my mind.”

The laugh that left you loosened the last of the tension in your body.

His expression shifted when he felt it.

“Can I move?”

You drew him down for a kiss. “Please.”

Beau pulled back slowly, leaving only the head inside you before pressing forward again.

The first thrust made you inhale sharply. It was not painful, but the drag of him against your walls was unfamiliar enough to overwhelm every other sensation. He repeated the movement with the same measured pace, giving you time to understand the fullness rather than bracing against it.

Your hands moved along his back.

Each thrust became easier. The stretch remained, but warmth began curling around it, pleasure gathering as your body adjusted to the rhythm. Beau watched you closely, his gaze moving between your face and the place where you were joined.

He changed the angle slightly.

The next stroke brushed something deeper inside you, making your hips lift to meet his.

Beau exhaled roughly. “There?”

You nodded, pulling him closer.

His thrusts grew more confident, still controlled but no longer hesitant. He pushed deeper each time, his pelvis pressing against your clit at the bottom of the movement. The room filled with the soft sounds of your breathing, the slide of his body against yours, and the playlist Beau had spent far too long arranging.

You wrapped one leg around his waist.

The change drew him deeper, and a moan slipped from you before you could soften it. Beau’s head lowered to your neck, his mouth opening against your skin as his composure began to fray.

He had been so focused on you that you almost forgot what this must feel like for him. The reminder came in the tension of his shoulders and the low sound he made each time you tightened around him.

Your nails dragged lightly down his back.

His hips snapped forward harder.

The sharper thrust sent pleasure through you, and Beau immediately slowed, lifting his head to read your expression.

“Again,” you whispered.

Something in his eyes darkened.

He gave you another deeper stroke, then another, finding a rhythm that pushed the discomfort entirely from your mind. Your body moved beneath his now, meeting each thrust instead of waiting for it.

The sweetness of the evening did not disappear. It changed shape.

Beau kissed you harder, his hand sliding beneath your thigh to hold it higher against his side. The new angle allowed him deeper, each thrust drawing a broken sound from your mouth. His restraint slipped piece by piece as you pulled him into you, until his breathing became rough and his hips moved with a desperation that made heat coil through your stomach again.

You were not sure you could come from the feeling of him alone, but Beau did not expect you to.

His hand moved between your bodies.

His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles while he continued thrusting into you. The combination made your walls tighten around him, and Beau’s pace faltered.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth.

Your second orgasm began building almost immediately, your body still sensitive from his tongue. Beau kept his thumb moving, matching the pressure to the rhythm of his hips until you could no longer separate one sensation from another.

The candlelight flickered behind him. Your favorite scent filled the room, sweet and warm, mixing with the heat of Beau’s body and the faint clean smell of his sheets.

You clung to him as the pressure tightened.

Beau felt it approaching. His mouth moved along your jaw, his voice low and strained near your ear.

“Let go.”

The orgasm broke through you with his next thrust.

Your body tightened around him in pulsing waves, your back lifting from the mattress as pleasure swept through you. Beau kept moving, his thumb circling your clit while you came around his cock, though the rhythm of his thrusts quickly became uneven.

He buried his face against your neck, a rough groan leaving him as your walls continued clenching around him.

His hips drove forward once, twice, then held deep inside you as he came in the condom, his entire body shuddering over yours.

Beau remained above you until his breathing steadied, his forehead resting against yours while the last tremors passed through both of you.

When he finally pulled out, he did it slowly. The movement left you tender enough to wince, and his hand immediately settled against your thigh.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your knee before taking care of the condom.

You expected him to return to bed, but Beau disappeared into the bathroom instead. He came back moments later with a warm washcloth and sat beside you, one hand gently parting your thighs.

The first pass made you tense. His gaze lifted to your face, but he did not turn it into a worried interrogation. He simply slowed down, cleaning the dampness from your skin with soft strokes.

A faint trace of pink marked the cloth.

Beau noticed it, though his expression never changed. His thumb moved soothingly over your knee as he finished, treating you with the same tenderness as before without making you feel embarrassed by it.

Once the washcloth was gone, he handed you one of the water bottles waiting on the nightstand and climbed beneath the covers. You barely managed a sip before he drew you against his chest.

His fingers drifted lazily along your back. The playlist continued softly, and your favorite candle still warmed the room with its familiar scent.

You tucked your face beneath his chin, suddenly too tired and full of emotion to overthink the words.

“I love you,” you mumbled against his chest.

Beau’s arms tightened around you. He kissed your hair, lingering there as he whispered, “I love you too.”

And that’s because it partially was.

For weeks, Beau danced around what he considered a bigger introduction than the one to his family: introducing you to Dean. He made excuses that always sounded just believable enough to pass. You saw through them, but didn’t push. You hadn’t understood his hesitation until you finally saw them together.

The second Dean entered the picture, everything clicked.

You spent the next few weeks observing them, catching the small details that anyone who didn’t know Beau as well as you did would miss. You noticed the way his dimples grew deeper whenever Dean was around. You saw the lingering looks Beau gave him when he thought nobody was looking. The looks were filled with a deep tenderness that bordered on something more complex than friendship, but not quite romantic.

For the weeks since you met Dean, you could see that, beneath Beau’s chilled exterior, there was a layer of hidden panic. A fear that you’d noticed the blurred lines of their bond and would force him into an ultimatum. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing his best friend, but, with every passing day that he spent with you, he knew he couldn’t bare to lose you either. So, he lived in fear of the day where you’d finally confront him.

That was today.

“Why didn’t you want me to meet Dean, Beau?”

The question hung in the air, catching Beau off guard as he was pulling his shirt over his head. He froze, his shirt halfway over his head. When he finally pulled it off, letting the shirt fall to the floor, his dark hair messily fell over his forehead as he looked at you. His brow furrowed. For a second, his usually sweet demeanour faltered, replaced by a defensive one.

But he caught himself quicky, soothing his expression. He had no right to look at you like that, your question was soft, not accusatory in the slightest. Even if it were, you’d have every right to that.  

“I...um.” Beau swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet room. He knew this was coming. He had weeks to prepare what he’d say to you and how he’d explain it in a way that you’d understand.

But every time he tried to prep, he felt selfish. How could he tell you not to feel jealous? How could he beg you not to give him the ultimatum he believed would come when he told you? How could he explain a bond that he hadn’t even fully defined to himself?

Beau’s gaze broke away from yours. He looked away, staring at the ceiling, his jaw flexing.

“Okay,” you said patiently. “Let’s start with an easier question. Do you love me?”

Across the bed, his eyes locked on to yours immediately, expression serious. “Yes,” he said. “Please, don’t ever question that. I love you so so much.”

“I don’t question it; I’m just proving a point.” You crawled across the mattress until you were kneeling right in front of him. You reached out, cupping his face in your hands and forcing him to look at you. “And because I know you love me, and that I love you, I need you to hear me out.”

He swallowed before looking at you.

“I’m not blind, Beau. I see that there’s a bond between you and Dean.”

Beau flinched slightly against your palms, his breath hitching. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his heart clenching with guilt. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt,” you responded firmly. “But I’m not a homewrecker either.”

Beau’s eyebrows furrowed again. “Wh-.”

“Let me finish,” you said, continuing once he closed his mouth. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I don’t want to stand in the way of whatever’s going on. But... I would like to be part of it.”

Beau froze under your hands, his chest pausing mid-rise. “So... you mean?”

“I mean, if you’re okay with it, why chose between us, when we could all explore together?”

He stared at you, his pupils dilating as his brain tried to process what you were offering. It almost made you laugh at how quickly his expression darkened in desire.

The realisation that his deepest secret, the thing that had been causing him pain for weeks, was not only safe with you, but craved by you, unlocked something within him.

“You’re serious? You’re not playing with me?”

You leant in close to his face. “I am completely serios,” you whispered against his lips.

Before the last word could fully leave your mouth, Beau moved.

His hands wrapped around your waist before he threw his weight forward. You gasped as your back hit the mattress, the air leaving your lungs as he pinned you down.

Not giving you a moment to recover, his mouth was immediately on yours. It wasn’t his usual sweet kisses, it was demanding. His mouth moved against you all rough and desperate. The weeks of tension finally spilling out in this moment.

There was a hunger to him that you hadn’t experienced before. He nudged your legs open so he could lay in between them and you immediately wrapped your legs around him.

It’s like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, where to touch you first. His hands were all over you, touching your neck, cupping your jaw, sliding up your shirt, cupping your breasts.

His mouth was swallowing your moans as he ground himself against you. He didn’t stop rubbing himself against you until the wetness between your legs had seeped through your panties and on to the front of his boxers.

He pressed kisses over you as he undressed you both, his hands continuing their roam over your body.

“Take what you need, Beau.” You said as you drew your knees to your chest, exposing yourself to him completely.  

Gone was the Beau who was soft and gentle, he was a man on a mission. Positioning himself between your legs, he lined himself up and slowly slid inside of you with a long, low moan. He didn’t immediately begin thrusting. Instead, he rocked his hips back and forth, hair flopping as his head dropped.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know, I know you do. Now, hurry up and fuck me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

A string of curses left your lips as he snapped his hips into you, building up to a quick pace. Every thrust was intentional, he wanted you to feel him, to know how deep his love ran for you. pressing your legs close to your chest, he snapped his hips into you harder, hips clapping against the backs of your thighs.   

Your head fell back in bliss as he reached between your bodies to rub at your clit. He groaned at the sight of you, head thrown back and eyes half-lidded.

It was the look on your face that had him cumming with your name on his lips. He did his best to keep moving, to keep giving you the friction that you needed to get off. It took a few more moments of caresses and whispers of sweet nothings before you were clenching on him, cumming with a silent scream.

By the time the night became the early morning, you were still awake. Even as Beau slept deeply, his arm slung over your waist, you couldn’t close your eyes, body too buzzed.

The weeks that followed that were easy. Beau no longer had walls up when you and Dean were in the same room, and that allowed you to get to know Dean better too. Dean had integrated into you and Beau’s life just as easily as you had integrated into Beau’s. You hadn’t felt like there was a piece missing until he somehow found a way to fit in. You didn’t know what to call him, a friend sounded wrong, your third-wheel sounded even worse. He was none of that.

The three of you sat in Beau’s dorm one Wednesday evening, scarfing down the meal Beau had made for you both. Dean was mid-sentence, ranting about something that had happened in training when Beau caught your eye. He gave you a slight nod. The green light.

“Dean,” you started, tilting your head as a wicked smile played on your lips. You leant forward, resting your elbows on the table in front of you as you looked him dead in the eye. “Have you ever thought about fucking me?”

Dean choked on his food, his eyes darting frantically between you and his best friend.

“Is this a trap?” He asked, throwing his hands up defensively. “I quite like my face and I don’t want Beau to break it.”

“Just answer the question, man,” Beau called from the other side of the table. He leant back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, amusement flashing in his eyes as he watched his best friend squirm.

Dean looked back at you, letting out a sharp laugh. “Well, duh. She’s hot and I’m a guy with eyes and a pulse. Of course I’ve thought about it.”

“Good,” you said, your smile widening as you took a sip of your drink. “Have you ever thought about what it would be like to fuck both of us at the same time? Me and Beau, to be clear.”

Dean turned his head toward his best friend, looking for backup, but found none. Beau was leaning back in his chair, a relaxed and incredibly smug expression on his face.

“She’s serious, D,” Beau said. He reached across the table, fingers brushing lightly against yours. “We’ve talked about it.”

Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry. The invisible boundary that Dean had spent months carefully respecting, the unspoken feelings he had locked away to keep from ruining Beau’s relationship, was being torn down right in front of him.

“It could get messy, sleeping with people who are in a relationship?” Dean hoped you’d dismiss his warning. You did.

“I like messy,” you replied with a shrug.

“So, what do you say?” Beau asked, staring at Dean. “Do you wanna have a threesome?”

Dean’s gaze darkened, his eyes flicking from you to Beau as he stood up from his chair. “Fuck yes. Let’s go.”

The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.

Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.

Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.

At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.

You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror. 

But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.

You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.

As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.

He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.

You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.

The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.

You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.

It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.

You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.

“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.

Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.

Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side. 

One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.

Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.

But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.

Robb Stark.

Named after your father’s namesake.

He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.

He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.

His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.

And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.

Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. 

You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different. 

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.

It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him. 

For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.

You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.

The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.

You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.

Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.

You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.

It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.

“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”

Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.

You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.

Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.

Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.

“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.

You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.

Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.

The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.

Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”

Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.

Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish.

“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.

When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.

Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold. 

You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants.  And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.

As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.

Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.

No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.

The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.

Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.

Steel striking wood.

You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.

There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.

The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.

“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”

He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.

“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”

Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”

Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.

“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”

He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”

Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten. 

“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.

He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.

“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”

You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”

That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.

“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”

“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”

Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”

You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”

Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.

You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”

When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”

You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”

Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.

“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness. 

You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”

Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”

Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.

“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.

At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”

Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.

“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”

Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."

You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”

Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.

“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.

You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”

He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”

“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”

Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him. 

When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”

Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.

Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”

You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”

The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”

Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”

You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.

“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.

Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”

Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”

That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”

Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”

When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”

He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”

You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”

Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.

“Jon.”

Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.

“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”

You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”

Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”

He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”

With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.

Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.

He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.

Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”

Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”

Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”

Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”

Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.

Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”

Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”

Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”

Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.

“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”

Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”

Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”

Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”

Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.

Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”

That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”

“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”

Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes. 

By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.

Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.

Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?

Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?

No one knew which way the coin would fall.

As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.

“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”

“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”

You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.

You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.

At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.

It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.

Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.

You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.

“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”

His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.

“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”

He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”

Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”

Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”

Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.

Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”

Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”

A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.

Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.

Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”

Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.

You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.

At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.

Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.

Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.

You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.

You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.

It was harsh—but it was honest.

And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.

When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.

You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.

“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.

“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.

You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”

“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”

You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”

The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.

A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.

“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”

“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”

You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”

The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.

“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”

“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.

Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”

You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”

“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.

Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him.  “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.

He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.

“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”

You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.

“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”

You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”

Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”

You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.

Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”

“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”

He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.

You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”

He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”

You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”

Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”

The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.

Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”

Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”

You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”

“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”

Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”

A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”

You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”

Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”

You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest. 

You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.

“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”

Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”

You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”

You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”

It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.

Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.

You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.

He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.

There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.

The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming. 

Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.

Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.

The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.

And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.

The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.

He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.

He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.

You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.

Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.

“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”

You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.

Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.

He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.

You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.

You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.

He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.

“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”

“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”

You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”

Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”

You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.

“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.

He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”

You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.

You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”

“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”

Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”

You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”

The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”

You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”

He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”

That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.

“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”

Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”

You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.

Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”

“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.

Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”

He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”

You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”

Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”

“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”

Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”

You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”

Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”

You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.

Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”

You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.

Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.

“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”

Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.

The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.

“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”

You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.

“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”

For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.

“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”

Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”

You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.

“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”

You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”

He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.

You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”

Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”

For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”

Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”

You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”

You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.

And then—

Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.

You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.

Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”

“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”

You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.

“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”

Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.

“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”

From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.

Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”

Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”

You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”

Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”

Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“

But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.

You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.

Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.

“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”

Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”

You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”

Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”

“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”

You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”

But he did.

The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.

“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”

That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”

Robb’s grin widened. “I’d expect nothing less, princess.”

In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.

Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.

You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.

For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.

Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.

At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.

Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.

“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”

Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”

The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.

She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”

Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”

Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”

But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”

Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.

“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.

Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”

“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.

“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”

Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”

You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”

His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”

You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”

He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”

“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”

Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”

And that was when his hand moved.

He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.

But Robb was faster.

He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.

“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”

Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”

Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”

The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.

Yet now there was no denying it.

Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.

The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.

“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.

You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”

Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.

He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.

He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.

The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.

Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.

The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.

“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.

You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”

The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.

“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”

You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”

Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”

Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.

“I… I didn’t mean to.”

You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.

“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”

You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”

Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”

You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.

The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.

A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”

Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”

You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”

Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.

As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.

He wanted you to stay.

Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.

And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.

The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.

Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.

Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.

Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.

And behind her, you stood.

Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark. 

Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”

Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”

Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”

Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch.

Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.

His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.” 

Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.

But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.

He imagined a life without you.

You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.

The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.

You were duty, yes. But you were also more.

And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.

He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.

Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”

But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.

He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you. 

Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.

His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”

Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.

Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.

But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”

The hall went still.

Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”

Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”

All eyes turned to Robb.

The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.

It found you.

Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted. 

And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”

The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.

A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.

Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.

Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”

Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.

“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”

Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”

Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.

And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.

You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”

The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.

Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.

For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.

Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”

Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”

The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.

Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.

“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”

Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.

And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.

A strange, unexpected calm.

Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.

You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.

And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.

For the first time, it felt like choice.

Dean and the boys sat in the stands overlooking the rink, bundled against the chill that seemed to seep through every inch of the arena. It still felt strange being on this side of the glass. Usually, he was the one on the ice, skates laced and stick in hand, while other people watched. Now he was the spectator.

But that's what boyfriends did. They showed up. They cheered. They learned the difference between a lutz and a loop, even if they still couldn't identify either with any confidence.

He smiled to himself.

You and Dean had started out exchanging harmless comments in passing. The hockey team finished practice just before your figure skating sessions, and there always seemed to be a few minutes where your paths crossed. At first, it was nothing more than teasing smiles and sarcastic remarks.

Neither of you had planned for it to become anything more.

You had a strict rule about never dating hockey players. Dean, meanwhile, didn't do girlfriends. Casual was easy. Commitment wasn't.

Then one party, one conversation that lasted until nearly sunrise, and one kiss neither of you had expected changed everything.

That had been months ago.

Since then, life had become a whirlwind of road games and competitions, late-night food runs, weekends in New York, and hundreds of quiet moments that somehow meant more than any grand gesture ever could.

Dean had never felt so completely known.

You saw past the jokes and the constant need to make everyone laugh. You recognized the parts of him he usually kept hidden beneath sarcasm and confidence, and somehow you loved those parts just as much.

Talking to you never felt like work. Silence never felt awkward. Whether you were wandering through the city, studying together, or simply sitting in comfortable silence, being with you felt effortless.

For the first time in his life, Dean understood what people meant when they talked about finding home in another person.

Being with you felt steady.

Safe.

Like the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow, despite that comfort, you still made his pulse race. Every date turned into an adventure. Every kiss still made him grin like an idiot. Every time you stepped onto the ice, he found himself staring with the same mix of admiration and disbelief.

He glanced over at Garrett and Hannah sitting a few seats down. He used to give them endless grief about being nauseatingly in love, constantly teasing them whenever they got caught stealing glances at each other.

Now he got it.

As you and your partner glided to center ice, Beau nudged him with an elbow.

"Try not to look too jealous," he teased. "She has to skate with him."

Dean rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his grin.

"Shut up."

The boys chuckled before their attention returned to the ice as the opening notes of your music filled the arena.

Dean loved watching you skate.

It was impossible not to.

The moment your blades touched the ice, everything about you changed. You looked lighter somehow, every movement effortless, every edge deliberate. Graceful. Confident. Completely at home.

It was like watching someone breathe.

He'd seen you perform dozens of times, yet every routine left him speechless.

You made the impossible look ordinary.

The program built toward its final sequence. Dean recognized it immediately.

The grand lift.

Your partner's hands settled at your waist before lifting you high overhead as they gained speed down the length of the rink.

Dean smiled.

Then everything went wrong.

It happened so quickly that his brain couldn't process it.

A slight stumble.

A hand slipping.

Your body tipping just enough to throw off the balance.

Then—

You fell.

Dean swears he heard the crack of your head striking the ice despite the music. A collective gasp swept through the crowd.

His friends all released a string of curse words. 

You didn't move.

Dean was on his feet before he even realized he'd stood.

"Y/N!"

The stairs blurred beneath him as he vaulted down toward the boards, the boys right behind him. Arena staff were only just beginning to react, but Dean was already pushing through the open gate onto the ice.

Someone shouted for him to stop.

He barely heard them.

His skates weren't on, forcing him to half-run, half-slide across the slick surface until he reached you.

You were exactly where you'd landed.

Perfectly still.

Your partner had scrambled backward, horror written across his face as he stared at you, frozen.

Dean dropped to his knees beside you, every instinct screaming at him to pull you into his arms.

He knew better.

Years of athletic trainers and emergency protocols echoed in his head.

Don't move her.

Not if there's a chance of a neck injury.

His hands hovered helplessly over yours before he carefully settled one against the ice beside your fingers, close enough that you could feel his presence if you were conscious.

"I'm here," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Don't try to move, okay? Just open your eyes."

There was no response. The fear that flooded his chest was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

He had taken hits that left him unable to breathe. He'd broken bones. Played through injuries. None of it came close to this.

Behind him, he heard the pounding footsteps of the medical team racing onto the ice.

"Sir, we need you to step back."

Dean looked at you one last time, fighting every instinct telling him not to leave your side.

"I'm right here," he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm not going anywhere."

Unresponsive.

Cervical collar.

Backboard.

Possible neck injury.

Possible spine injury.

Possible head injury.

The words blurred together, each one hitting Dean like another body check.

He sat on the narrow bench in the back of the ambulance, his knees pressed against the cabinets as the vehicle sped toward the hospital. The sirens wailed outside, but inside everything felt strangely controlled.

One paramedic knelt beside you, monitoring your airway while another secured the last of the straps across the backboard. The rigid cervical collar kept your head perfectly still. Electrodes dotted your chest, a pulse oximeter glowed on your finger, and the cardiac monitor filled the compartment with a steady, rhythmic beeping.

Dean couldn't tear his eyes away. Your chest rose and fell on its own, slow but steady, and for some reason, that tiny movement became the only thing he could focus on.

"Is she..." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat before trying again. "Is she going to be okay?"

Neither paramedic lied.

"We don't know yet."

The honesty somehow hurt more than false reassurance ever could.

Dean reached toward your hand before stopping himself, afraid of getting in the way. Instead, he rested two fingers gently against yours where they lay strapped beside your hip.

"I'm here," he whispered. "You don't have to wake up right now... just... keep fighting."

There was no squeeze. No twitch. Nothing.

One of the paramedics glanced at the monitor before speaking into the radio.

"Twenty-one-year-old female. Figure skating fall from an overhead lift. Unresponsive since impact. Cervical collar in place, fully immobilized. Concern for cervical spine injury and traumatic brain injury. Vitals currently stable. ETA three minutes."

Dean closed his eyes for a second.

Three minutes.

It felt impossible that his entire world had unraveled in less than ten.

The emergency department doors swung shut behind the trauma team, leaving Dean standing alone in the hallway.

"Sir, you can't come back here."

The nurse's voice was gentle but firm.

"We need room to work."

Dean looked through the small window in the doors one last time. He caught a glimpse of doctors and nurses surrounding your stretcher before someone pulled a curtain closed.

Then you were gone.

The waiting room was painfully quiet.

Dean sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. Every few seconds, he glanced toward the double doors, hoping someone would come through with an update.

The entrance doors opened. Logan was the first one through, followed closely by Garrett, Hannah, and Beau. Garrett carried your bag over his shoulder. No one spoke at first.

Logan walked straight over to Dean.

"Any news?"

Dean slowly shook his head.

"They took her straight for imaging." His voice was hoarse. "They're worried about her head, neck, and spine."

Logan ran both hands over his face, pacing a few steps before stopping himself.

Garrett quietly set your bag on the floor beside Dean's chair.

"Hannah grabbed everything from the locker room," he said. 

Dean nodded absentmindedly.

"Thanks."

He opened the bag and looked through it, finding your phone.

The lock screen lit up, revealing a picture of the two of us smiling back at him. His chest tightened. He remembered you mentioning the passcode months ago, laughing that it was "the easiest number for Dean to remember."

His birthday.

The phone unlocked.

Dean hesitated for only a second before opening your contacts and finding Mom.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

"I can do it if you want," Garrett offered quietly.

Dean swallowed.

"No."

He took a shaky breath and pressed call.

It rang twice.

"Hi, sweetheart!" your mom answered cheerfully. "How'd the competition go?"

Dean couldn't speak.

Not at first.

"...Mrs. Y/L/N?"

There was a pause.

"Dean?"

Silence. He didn’t know what to say.

Then her tone shifted immediately.

"Dean? Is everything okay?"

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"There was... there was an accident during her program."

Another silence.

"What do you mean, an accident?"

"Her partner dropped her during a lift." Dean felt every pair of eyes in the waiting room turn toward him, but he couldn't look at any of them. "She hit her head on the ice. She was unconscious when the ambulance took her."

The line went completely still.

When your mother finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Is she okay?"

Dean looked toward the trauma bay doors.

"They're still evaluating her. She's in CT right now. The doctors don't know how badly she's hurt yet."

"I'll be there as fast as I can."

"I know."

"Dean, love, she’ll be okay."

Dean's grip tightened around the phone.

After the call ended, the waiting room fell silent once again.

No one knew what to say.

Time crawled.

Every time the emergency department doors slid open, every head in the waiting room snapped up in unison.

A nurse calling another patient.

A family leaving with discharge papers.

Someone from housekeeping pushing a cart.

Never a doctor.

Never anyone coming for them.

Dean had lost track of how long they'd been sitting there. Twenty minutes? An hour? Three? Time had stopped making sense the moment the ambulance doors closed.

The doors opened again.

This time, your skating partner stepped hesitantly into the waiting room.

His competition jacket was draped over his shoulders. His hair was still damp, and his eyes were bloodshot.

The moment he spotted Dean, he froze, guilt written all over his face.

"I..." His voice broke. "Dean, I'm so—"

Dean stood before he could finish. For a split second, Garrett thought he might actually swing. Instead, Dean wrapped him in a hug. The other skater completely fell apart.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I lost my grip. I don't know what happened. I tried—I tried to catch her."

Dean closed his eyes, summoning a strength he didn’t know he possessed, "I know."

"I dropped her."

"I know."

"It's my fault."

Dean pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, "No."

Your partner shook his head, tears spilling freely. Dean understood why he blamed himself. He probably always would. But Dean also knew what came with loving an athlete. Hockey players blew out knees. Football players broke bones. Figure skaters trusted another person to throw them into the air and catch them again. Sometimes things went wrong. That didn't make it anyone's fault.

Dean squeezed his shoulder, "She'd tell you the same thing."

Before either of them could say anything else, the doors opened once more. A doctor in navy scrubs stepped into the waiting room, clipboard in hand.

"Dean Di Laurentis?"

Dean's heart lurched.

"That's me."

The doctor smiled—a small one, but enough for Dean's shoulders to loosen for the first time all day.

"I have some good news."

Everyone stood.

"The CT scans of her head and cervical spine are normal. There's no evidence of bleeding, no skull fracture, and no injury to her neck or spine."

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"The neurological exam looks reassuring as well. Her strength, sensation, and reflexes are all intact."

Garrett quietly muttered, "Thank God."

"She does have a significant concussion," the doctor continued. "Given the mechanism of injury and the length of time she was unconscious, we're taking it seriously. She's going to have a rough few days with headaches, fatigue, and she'll need plenty of cognitive and physical rest."

Dean nodded, absorbing every word.

"Is she..."

The doctor smiled again.

"She's awake and she's been asking for you."

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, equal parts relief and disbelief.

"Can I see her?"

"You can."

The doctor handed him a packet of discharge instructions.

"If someone can stay with her continuously for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, we're comfortable discharging her. We want someone around in case her symptoms worsen, and she'll need to avoid driving, strenuous activity, alcohol, and anything that risks another head injury until she's cleared."

"I'll stay with her," Dean answered immediately.

The doctor nodded.

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

Dean didn't wait another second. He was already halfway to the doors before anyone else had a chance to move.

He stopped just long enough to toss your phone to Garrett.

"Call her mom, please, G. Password's my birthday."

Garrett caught it with one hand.

"You got it."

"Dean-o."

The greeting came out weak and raspy, but it was unmistakably you.

Dean stopped in the doorway.

For a long moment, he simply stared.

You looked exhausted. Your hair was a mess, and your skin had lost its usual color. But the cervical collar was gone.

That alone made his chest loosen.

You turned stiffly toward the nurse as she removed the last of your IV.

"Look at him," you said, gesturing lazily toward Dean. "Isn't he just a beautiful specimen of a man?"

The nurse laughed.

Dean let out a watery chuckle, covering his face with one hand as he tried—and failed—to hide the tears threatening to spill over.

"Seriously?" he asked, crossing the room. "You give everyone a concussion scare, and that's your first line?"

You frowned in mock offense.

"It was..." You paused, clearly searching for the rest of the sentence.

"...a really good line."

"It was."

He bent down, pressing the gentlest kiss imaginable to your forehead before resting his own there for a moment.

"I was so scared."

The smile faded from your face.

"I know."

A beat passed.

"I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head immediately.

"Don't apologize."

"I didn't mean to..."

"I know."

His thumb brushed gently across your cheek. He opened his mouth, ready to make some smart remark to lighten the mood, but the door swung open before he had the chance.

"Fuck," Logan said as he walked in. "I don't think I've ever seen Dean move that fast."

Garrett, Hannah, and Beau filed in behind him.

"There she is," Beau said, relief washing over his face. "The woman who gave three Division I hockey players simultaneous heart attacks."

You blinked at him.

"Only three?"

A sleepy grin spread across your face.

"Must be losing my touch."

Logan folded his arms.

"You can barely keep your eyes open, and you're still making jokes."

"It's called commitment."

Dean laughed.

The sound had barely left him before you winced, squeezing your eyes shut.

Instantly, every smile in the room disappeared.

"You okay?" Dean asked quietly.

"Yeah..." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Just... don't laugh so loud."

He gave you an apologetic smile.

"Noted."

Garrett stepped closer to the bed.

"We called your mom. She's on her way to the hockey house to meet us."

You nodded slowly.

"Okay."

"Your partner's downstairs in the lobby, too," he continued. "We told him he could come up, but... he didn't want to."

Your expression softened.

"He thinks it's his fault."

No one said anything.

"It isn't," you murmured. "Can you... tell him that?"

"We will," Garrett promised.

The nurse, noticing everyone had finally settled, stepped forward with a clipboard.

"All right, since it looks like you have plenty of people volunteering to keep an eye on you..."

She launched into the discharge instructions, making eye contact with each of them as she spoke.

"No driving until you're cleared."

"No alcohol."

"Lots of rest."

"Limit screen time if it makes the headaches worse."

"If she starts vomiting repeatedly, becomes difficult to wake up, develops worsening confusion, weakness, numbness, or has a seizure, bring her straight back to the emergency department."

Everyone nodded with surprising seriousness.

Dean looked like he was mentally memorizing every word.

By the time the nurse finished, you looked utterly drained.

You let your eyes drift closed, your head sinking carefully against the pillow.

Dean noticed immediately.

"If you guys don't mind..." he said softly, glancing at the others. "Can I have a couple minutes?"

No one argued.

Within seconds, the room emptied.

The moment the door clicked shut, Dean turned back to you.

"Think you can get changed?"

You cracked one eye open.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you're volunteering to help."

A small smile tugged at his lips.

"I am."

With slow, careful movements, he helped you sit up, one hand supporting your back while the other steadied your arm. Every motion was deliberate, giving you plenty of time whenever you paused because the room threatened to spin.

He slid the sweatshirt Hannah grabbed from your locker gently over your head, careful not to bump the tender spot hidden beneath your hair. Then came a pair of soft sweatpants, guiding your feet through one leg at a time while you leaned against his shoulder for balance.

When you were finally dressed, he crouched in front of you to help you into your sneakers.

Only then did he stop.

He rested his hands lightly on your knees and looked up at you.

"You don't have to be brave with me."

The room fell quiet.

His eyes searched yours, taking in the exhaustion, the lingering confusion, and the effort it was taking just to stay awake.

"How are you really doing?"

For the first time since the fall, there was no audience.

Just the two of you.

You stared down at your hands for a long moment before speaking.

"I think..." Your voice caught.

Dean stayed silent.

"I think I'm done skating."

The words hung in the room.

He knew what they cost you.

Skating wasn't just a hobby. It was early mornings before class. Hours in freezing rinks. Competitions. Blisters. Bruises. Missing holidays. Chasing scores by fractions of a point. It was the language you spoke before you knew how to put your dreams into words.

It was part of who you were.

Dean swallowed hard.

"Hey."

You finally looked up at him.

"You don't have to decide that today."

A tear escaped before you could stop it.

"But what if I never trust another lift again?"

Dean reached up, brushing it away with his thumb.

"Then you don't."

"I almost..." Your voice broke. "Dean, I don't even remember hitting the ice. I woke up in a hospital."

"I know."

"What if next time is worse?"

He took both of your hands in his.

"Then that's a conversation for months from now."

You let out a shaky breath.

"I don't know if I can go back."

"You don't have to."

You searched his face.

"But if I quit..."

"You won't be quitting."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

He squeezed your hands gently.

"If you decide, after you've healed, after the headaches are gone, after you've had time to think—not today, not tomorrow, but when you're ready—that skating isn't what you want anymore..."

He paused.

"...that's not quitting."

"That's choosing."

"You've already proved how tough you are. You don't owe anyone another performance just because you've spent years getting here."

You looked away, tears quietly slipping down your cheeks.

"It feels like I'd be losing part of myself."

Dean's expression softened.

"I don't think skating is what made you who you are."

"It isn't?"

He shook his head.

"You make little kids stop and watch through the glass because they think you're magic."

A watery laugh escaped you.

"You make my teammates feel like family."

Another tear rolled down your cheek.

"You make my mom think I'm finally dating someone good for me."

That earned him a tiny smile.

"You make every room brighter the second you walk into it."

He rested his forehead against yours.

"The ice is just where everyone else got to see it."

Your eyes closed.

For the first time all day, you let yourself cry.

Not because your head hurt.

Not because you were scared.

But because someone had finally given you permission not to have all the answers.

Dean wrapped his arms around you as carefully as he could, mindful of your aching body.

"You don't have to decide today," he whispered again.

"So..."

You sniffled.

"...can I just be your girlfriend for a while?"

He smiled.

"You have never been just anything."

"Can we go home?"

Garrett is shoved backward as a swarm of people in scrubs and high-visibility jackets descends on the back of the ambulance. He trips over his own heavy boots, his shoulder colliding hard with the metal frame of the door, but he barely feels the impact.

He is completely numb.

He watches, trapped in a terrifying, out-of-body disassociation, as they pull the stretcher out into the freezing night.

You are entirely swallowed by the chaos. The yellow backboard, the rigid plastic brace locked around your neck, the tangle of IV lines and monitor wires — it all looks so incredibly wrong. You are small. You are fragile. You are supposed to be safe in his kitchen, laughing at Dean and stealing Logan’s hoodies.

You are not supposed to be bleeding out on a gurney.

“Sir, step back!” A voice yells, but it sounds like it’s underwater.

Garrett stumbles out of the ambulance, his boots hitting the pavement of the ambulance bay. He blindly follows the chaotic rush of medical personnel pushing your stretcher through the automatic sliding glass doors.

The emergency room is a madhouse. Phones are ringing, people are shouting, monitors are beeping in a discordant, terrifying symphony.

“Trauma Bay One is prepped!” A male nurse shouts, jogging backward as he helps guide your stretcher down the wide linoleum hallway. “What’s her status?”

“She’s tachycardic, GCS is a seven and dropping,” the paramedic barks, practically running to keep up with the rolling bed. “She briefly regained consciousness on the scene but she’s been unresponsive for the last eight minutes.”

They wheel you past the triage desk. They wheel you past the crowded waiting room.

And then, it happens.

A young nurse, wearing the same standard-issue hospital blue scrubs you usually hate, is walking out of a supply closet with a stack of clean towels. She glances casually at the incoming trauma rushing past her.

Her eyes lock onto the stretcher.

The stack of towels slips from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft, muffled thud.

“Oh my god,” the young nurse gasps, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. Her eyes go completely wide, pure, unadulterated horror stripping the color from her face. “Is that … is that Y/N?”

The question cuts through the noise of the ER like a knife.

The male nurse pushing the foot of your stretcher looks down. He really looks. The heavy blood, the swelling, the terrifying distortion of your features makes it hard, but underneath the violence, the recognition clicks into place.

“Fuck,” the male nurse curses loudly, his voice cracking with panic. “It’s Y/N! Hey! It’s one of ours! It’s Y/N!”

The shift in the room is instantaneous and absolute.

A hospital emergency room is trained to handle trauma. They deal with tragedy objectively, separating their emotions from the physical mechanics of saving a life.

But not this time.

The objective professionalism shatters into a million pieces. The name echoes down the hallway, passed from nurse to doctor to orderly like a devastating electric shock.

It’s Y/N. The pediatric nurse. The girl with the patterned scrubs who stays late to hold the preemie babies.

“Get Dr. Gardner down here right fucking now!” A voice screams from down the hall.

“Page trauma surgery! Page neuro!”

Garrett trails behind the stretcher like a ghost. People are running past him, sprinting toward Trauma Bay One. The urgency has multiplied tenfold. This isn’t just a patient anymore. This is their family.

They push the stretcher into the large, glass-walled room of Trauma Bay One. The doors slide shut, but the chaos inside only amplifies.

Garrett hits the glass.

He slaps both of his hands flat against the cold pane, his face pressing close, his dark eyes wide and terrified as he watches them transfer you from the stretcher to the hospital bed.

There are at least ten people crowded around you.

“On my count!” Dr. Gardner, the same doctor who stitched Garrett’s forehead a month ago, yells over the din. He looks completely frantic, his usual calm demeanor entirely gone. “One, two, three!”

They lift the backboard and slide you over. Your arm flops limply off the side of the bed. A nurse immediately catches it, her own hands shaking as she secures the IV line.

“Someone get me the portable ultrasound!” Dr. Gardner barks, grabbing a pair of trauma shears from the counter. “We need to check for internal bleeding. Her abdomen is rigid. I need two units of O-negative blood, stat!”

Garrett presses his forehead against the glass. He is trapped on the outside, a helpless, useless spectator to the most terrifying moment of his entire life.

He feels a heavy hand land firmly on his shoulder.

Garrett flinches violently, spinning around with his fists instantly raised, ready to fight, ready to destroy whoever is touching him.

But it’s not a threat.

Standing in front of him is a short, stocky older woman in dark blue scrubs. Her silver hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and her name tag reads Helen - Charge Nurse. Her face is lined with years of exhaustion and ER stress, but right now, her eyes are blazing with a fierce, terrifying intensity.

“Lower your hands, son,” Helen says. Her voice is calm, gravelly, and brooks absolute zero argument.

Garrett slowly lowers his fists, his chest heaving as he fights for air that doesn’t seem to exist. “I-I have to …”

“You have to stay out of their way,” Helen says firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight, forcing him to look at her instead of the bloody scene behind the glass. “They are doing everything they can. You being in there will only distract them, and she needs every single ounce of their focus right now.”

Garrett’s jaw trembles. He looks down at his hands.

They are coated in your blood. It has dried into the creases of his knuckles, stained the cuffs of his black Henley, and smeared across his palms. The sight of it sends a fresh, violent wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.

“Come here,” Helen murmurs, her tone softening marginally.

She grabs him by the bicep. For a woman half his size, she has a grip like a vise. She pulls him a few feet away from the glass window, steering him toward a small alcove near the nurses’ station that offers a sliver of privacy.

She pushes him down into a plastic chair.

“Sit,” she orders.

Garrett collapses into the chair, his elbows coming to rest on his knees. He buries his face in his bloodstained hands, a ragged, broken sob tearing its way up his throat. He can’t hold it back anymore. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving behind nothing but the agonizing, crushing reality of what just happened.

Helen doesn’t offer him empty platitudes. She doesn’t pat his back or tell him everything is going to be okay. She’s an ER nurse; she knows better than to make promises she can’t keep.

Instead, she turns to a nearby sink, wets a thick stack of brown paper towels with warm water, and walks back over to him.

“Give me your hands,” Helen says.

Garrett slowly lifts his head. He drops his hands to his lap.

Helen kneels in front of him, entirely uncaring about the linoleum floor. She takes his massive, shaking hands in her own and begins to methodically wipe the drying blood from his skin.

“You were in here a month ago,” Helen says quietly, her eyes focused entirely on the task of cleaning his knuckles. “I remember you. The hockey player with the concussion.”

“Yeah,” Garrett rasps, his throat burning.

“She was terrified that night,” Helen continues, scrubbing a stubborn patch of crimson from his palm. “I’ve been a nurse for forty years. I know what a victim of domestic abuse looks like. I knew what she was going home to. I tried to get her to talk to me, but she wouldn’t. She protected him.”

Garrett closes his eyes, the memory of that night in the exam room flashing vividly behind his eyelids.

“She left with you,” Helen says, tossing the bloody paper towels into a nearby biohazard bin and grabbing a fresh, wet stack. “I watched her walk out of those sliding doors with you, and for the first time since she started working here, she looked like she had a sliver of hope.”

“I told her I’d protect her,” Garrett chokes out, the guilt a physical, crushing weight on his chest. “I promised her she was safe. I moved her into my house. We were careful. We were so fucking careful.”

“Careful doesn’t matter when you’re dealing with a monster,” Helen says bluntly.

She finishes wiping his hands, tossing the last of the towels away. She doesn’t stand up. She stays kneeling in front of him, forcing him to meet her steely, hardened gaze.

“What’s the story?” Helen asks, her voice dropping to a dangerous, deadly whisper. “And don’t you dare lie to me. Who did this to my girl?”

Garrett looks at her. He sees the absolute, uncompromising love this woman has for you. He sees the fury vibrating in her jaw.

“My father,” Garrett says, the words tasting like poison on his tongue. “Phil Graham.”

Helen’s eyebrows twitch, a brief flash of recognition crossing her face, but she doesn’t seem to care that the man is a famous athlete. She only cares that he is a monster.

“He tracked her down,” Garrett continues, the words pouring out of him in a disjointed, frantic rush. “She went to the grocery store after her shift. He must have been waiting. He must have followed her. We found her in the alley out back. He beat her, Helen. He beat her until she couldn’t stand, and then he just left her there to die.”

Helen’s expression hardens into something akin to carved stone. She slowly stands up, smoothing down the front of her scrubs.

“The police are already on their way,” Helen says, her voice cold and absolute. “Protocol for assault victims. They’ll be here any minute to take a statement.”

She steps closer to him, leaning down slightly so her face is inches from his.

“You tell them everything,” Helen orders, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “You tell them about tonight. You tell them about the bruises you saw a month ago. You give them his name, his address, and the make of his car if you know it.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Garrett whispers, the terrifying, homicidal calm returning to his blood. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

“No, you are not,” Helen snaps, her voice cracking like a whip. “You are not going to throw your life away for a piece of garbage like that. You are going to let the police arrest him, and you are going to make damn sure that whoever did this to sweet Y/N never sees the light of day again. You bury him with the law. You don’t let him ruin your life too.”

Garrett stares at her, his jaw locked tight. He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue.

“I need to get back to my floor,” Helen says, stepping back. Her eyes flick toward the glass window of Trauma Bay One, a flash of profound sadness breaking through her tough exterior. “You sit right here. You don’t move until the doctors come out to speak with you.”

“Is she …” Garrett swallows hard, terrified to even ask the question. “Is she going to make it?”

Helen looks at him, her eyes softening with a deep, tragic sympathy. “She’s young. She’s strong. And she has the best trauma team in the state working on her right now. But Garrett … it’s bad. Prepare yourself.”

Helen turns and walks away, disappearing back into the chaotic flow of the emergency room.

Garrett is left alone in the plastic chair.

He turns his head, his eyes immediately locking back onto the glass wall of the trauma bay.

It looks like a warzone inside.

Dr. Gardner is standing on one side of the bed, his white coat stained with your blood, shouting orders. Two nurses are frantically hanging bags of blood and clear fluids, the plastic lines tangling together in their rush.

Someone is cutting away your dark jeans, exposing the pale skin of your legs.

“We have fluid in the abdomen!” Dr. Gardner yells, staring at the screen of a portable ultrasound machine. “She’s bleeding internally. We need an OR prepped right now! Call the surgical team, tell them we’re coming up!”

Garrett stands up, drawn magnetically toward the glass.

He watches as a respiratory therapist pushes through the crowd, holding a terrifying array of plastic tubes and a metal laryngoscope.

“Her airway is swelling!” The therapist shouts. “She’s not getting enough oxygen. I need to intubate!”

“Do it!” Dr. Gardner barks. “Push the propofol and rocuronium. Get her under.”

Garrett presses his hands against the glass again. He watches in pure, unadulterated agony as they tilt your head back. He watches them slip the metal blade into your mouth, forcing your jaw open, slipping a plastic tube down your throat to breathe for you because your broken body can no longer do it on its own.

It is the most violated, terrifying thing he has ever witnessed.

He feels like his heart is being slowly, methodically crushed in a vise. Every time the monitor beeps — a frantic, irregular sound — he flinches. Every time a new drop of blood hits the white hospital floor, a piece of his soul breaks off.

This is his fault.

The thought is a toxic, pervasive cancer in his mind. He brought you into his world. He challenged a man he knew was a volatile, violent psychopath, and he arrogant enough to believe he could just walk away. He thought a locked door and three college hockey players were enough to stop a monster with decades of experience in terrorizing people.

He underestimated Phil. And you are paying the ultimate, agonizing price for his mistake.

“Garrett!”

The frantic shout cuts through the noise of the ER.

Garrett turns his head.

Bursting through the main sliding glass doors are Logan, Dean, and Tucker. They look entirely unhinged. Dean’s face is stained with tears, Logan’s eyes are wild and frantic, and Tucker is deathly pale, his jaw locked tight.

They spot him standing by the glass and immediately sprint across the waiting room, completely ignoring the protests of the security guard at the desk.

“Where is she?” Logan demands, grabbing Garrett’s shoulder. “Is she okay? What are they saying?”

Garrett doesn’t answer. He just turns his head back toward the glass window.

The boys follow his gaze.

They freeze. All three of them, these massive, imposing athletes who fear absolutely nothing on the ice, stop dead in their tracks.

Dean lets out a broken, horrifying sob, covering his mouth with his hand. He turns away instantly, unable to look at you with the tube down your throat, your face a swollen, bloody mess. He leans against the wall, his shoulders shaking violently.

Tucker closes his eyes, a tear escaping to run down his cheek. He reaches out and grips Garrett’s shoulder, a silent, desperate attempt at grounding them both in a reality that feels completely surreal.

Logan doesn’t look away. He stares through the glass, his eyes tracking the frantic movements of the doctors, the blood on the floor, the terrifying array of machines keeping you alive.

“He’s dead,” Logan whispers. The words are utterly devoid of emotion. They are a statement of fact. “Phil Graham is a dead man.”

“Get in line,” Garrett rasps, his voice hollow.

Suddenly, the doors to Trauma Bay One slide violently open.

“Move! We’re moving!” Dr. Gardner yells, running alongside the bed as two orderlies push the stretcher out into the hallway. “Clear a path to the elevators! OR 4 is waiting!”

Garrett steps forward automatically, trying to get to you, trying to grab your hand one more time.

“Stay back!” Dr. Gardner shouts, not unkindly, but with absolute urgency. “She’s bleeding internally. Her spleen is ruptured and we suspect a severe traumatic brain injury. We are taking her to surgery right now.”

“Can I …” Garrett chokes on the words. “Can I come up?”

“You wait in the surgical waiting room on the third floor,” Dr. Gardner says, the stretcher already moving rapidly down the hall. “We will find you when we know more. Just pray, boys. Just pray.”

And then, they are gone.

The stretcher rounds the corner toward the surgical elevators, disappearing from sight, leaving behind nothing but a smeared trail of blood on the linoleum floor and a terrifying, ringing silence in Garrett’s ears.

Garrett stands in the middle of the hallway, staring at the empty space where you just were. He feels completely hollowed out. There is nothing left inside him but a cold, desolate wasteland of terror and guilt.

“Garrett Graham?”

A deep, authoritative voice echoes from behind them.

Garrett turns slowly.

Standing a few feet away are two uniformed police officers. They look grim, their hands resting on their utility belts, their eyes scanning the four massive hockey players standing in the middle of the trauma wing.

“I’m Garrett,” he says, his voice flat.

The older of the two officers, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a heavy mustache, steps forward and pulls a small notebook from his breast pocket.

“I’m Officer Miller, this is Officer Davis,” he says, his tone strictly professional but carrying a weight of understanding. “We were called in regarding the assault victim that just came through here. Y/N. The charge nurse said you were the one who found her.”

“I found her,” Garrett confirms.

“We need to ask you some questions, son,” Officer Miller says gently. “Can you tell us exactly what happened tonight? And do you have any idea who might have done this to her?”

Garrett looks at the officer. He thinks about Helen’s words. You bury him with the law. You make damn sure he never sees the light of day again.

He thinks about the way you looked in that alleyway, curled into a ball, apologizing to him while your face bled onto the asphalt. He thinks about the violent, terrifying reality of his father.

Logan steps up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Garrett, a silent, imposing wall of support. Tucker moves to his other side. Dean wipes his face and steps up right behind them.

They are a united front. They are your family.

“I don’t just have an idea,” Garrett says, his voice ringing with a terrifying, absolute clarity that echoes in the quiet emergency room. He locks eyes with the police officer. “I know exactly who did it.”

Officer Miller clicks his pen. “Who?”

“Phil Graham,” Garrett says, the name echoing like a death sentence. “He’s my father. And I want him put in a cage for the rest of his miserable life.”

***

“I want to make sure I have this entirely straight, son,” Officer Miller says, his pen hovering over the small spiral notebook. The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room hallway cast deep, exhausted shadows under the cop’s eyes. “You are accusing your father, Philip Graham, former professional hockey player, of this assault.”

“I’m not just accusing him,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously calm. He sits rigidly in the plastic waiting room chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’m telling you it was him.”

Officer Davis, the younger cop, shifts his weight. “And you said you witnessed him abuse her previously?”

“Thanksgiving,” Garrett answers without missing a beat. “I went to his house in Connecticut for dinner. It was the first time I met her. She reached across the table, and her sleeve slid up. She had finger-shaped bruises all over her bicep. The exact same size and shape as the bruises I just saw on her arm in the ambulance.”

Officer Miller frowns, jotting down the notes rapidly. “Did you report the abuse then?”

“No,” Garrett grits out, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “She begged me not to. She was terrified. She told me it was her fault for dropping a glass. I got in my face with him, told her to run, and I left. But three weeks later, she ended up in this ER as my nurse. He had beaten her again because my exit embarrassed him. So I took her home with me.”

“She’s been living with us for almost a month,” Tucker interjects. He is standing right behind Garrett’s chair, a solid, immovable presence. “In our off-campus house. We’ve been keeping the doors locked. She bought a burner phone so he couldn’t track her GPS. She was terrified he would find her.”

“But he did,” Logan adds, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his blue eyes hard as ice. “She texted us at 6:05 PM that she was clocking out and going to the Market Basket down the street. When she wasn’t home by 7:15, Garrett tried to call. It went to voicemail. So we tracked her Life360 location to the parking lot.”

Officer Davis looks up from his own notepad. “You found the car first?”

“Row G,” Dean says. His voice is shaky, completely lacking its usual arrogant bravado. He looks sick to his stomach. “Driver’s side door was wide open. Groceries all over the ground. Her phone was smashed on the pavement. Garrett told us to split up.”

“I took the back alley,” Garrett takes over, staring blankly at the far wall. “Behind the hardware store and the loading docks. That’s where I found her.”

“Did you see anyone else in the alley?” Miller asks. “A vehicle leaving the scene? Anyone fleeing on foot?”

“No,” Garrett says. “It was empty. He was already gone. But I’m telling you, it was him. Check the security cameras at the grocery store. Check the traffic cams at the intersection. You’ll see his car. He drives a black BMW.”

Officer Miller closes his notebook with a definitive snap. “We have units at the Market Basket securing the scene right now. They’re pulling the surveillance footage as we speak. We’re also dispatching state troopers to Phil Graham’s residence to bring him in for questioning.”

“Questioning isn’t going to be enough,” Garrett says, finally looking up to meet the officer’s eyes. The dark, lethal promise in Garrett’s gaze makes the older cop pause. “He nearly beat her to death. He left her in an alley to die. If you don’t lock him up, I will handle him myself.”

“Garrett,” Tucker warns quietly, his hand squeezing Garrett’s shoulder.

Officer Miller exhales a long, heavy breath. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, son. Let us do our jobs. If what you’re saying lines up with the evidence at the scene, Philip Graham won’t be seeing the outside of a jail cell for a very, very long time. Attempted murder is a heavy charge.”

The words ring in the air, echoing violently in Garrett’s skull.

“We’ll be in touch,” Officer Davis says gently. “Don’t leave the hospital without letting the front desk know. We might need a formal written statement later tonight.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Logan says flatly.

The two officers turn and walk away, their heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum.

As soon as they are out of earshot, the last of Garrett’s adrenaline completely evaporates. It leaves behind a crushing, suffocating exhaustion that makes his bones ache. He leans forward, burying his face in his hands, his fingers tangling roughly in his dark hair.

“This is my fault,” Dean whispers from a few feet away.

Garrett lifts his head. Dean is pacing a tight circle near the vending machines, his hands tugging at the roots of his blonde hair.

“Dean, stop,” Logan says tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

“No, think about it,” Dean insists, his voice cracking. He looks at the three of them, completely devastated. “She asked if we needed anything. I asked for the damn Bagel Bites. If I had just kept my mouth shut, she would have driven straight home. She wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have caught her.”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says firmly, stepping away from Garrett’s chair to intercept Dean. He grabs Dean by the shoulders, forcing the pacing to stop. “Listen to me. Do not do that. Phil Graham is a predator. If he found her at the grocery store, it means he was already watching her. He probably followed her from the hospital. If she hadn’t stopped at the store, he might have tried to pull her out of her car at a stoplight, or ambushed her in our driveway.”

“Tuck’s right,” Logan agrees, stepping up beside them. “This isn’t on you, Dean. It’s on Phil. And we are going to make sure he pays for it.”

Garrett listens to his friends, but the words just wash over him. Dean can blame himself for the grocery list all he wants, but Garrett knows the real truth.

It’s his fault.

He is the one who dragged you into this mess. He is the one who provoked Phil. He is the one who arrogantly assumed he could play the hero and save you from the dragon, without realizing the dragon would simply burn the whole castle down in retaliation.

The waiting room clock ticks loudly on the wall.

It’s 11:42 PM.

You have been in surgery for over three hours.

The surgical waiting room on the third floor is suffocatingly quiet. The ER was loud, chaotic, and terrifying. But this room is worse. It’s just beige walls, uncomfortable chairs, old magazines, and the agonizing, stretching silence of not knowing.

“I’m getting coffee,” Logan announces, pushing himself up from the stiff couch. “Garrett? You want anything?”

Garrett shakes his head silently. He hasn’t moved from his chair in hours. He hasn’t washed his hands again. There is still a faint smear of your blood on his left cuff. He can’t bring himself to scrub it out. It feels like throwing away a piece of you.

“Get him a black coffee,” Tucker tells Logan. “And get Dean some water.”

Logan nods and slips out the door.

Dean drops onto the couch across from Garrett, staring blankly at his phone screen. “How long does a surgery take? It’s been hours.”

“As long as she needs,” Tucker says softly, taking the seat next to Garrett.

Silence falls over the room again.

Garrett closes his eyes. Every time he does, he is trapped in a horrific highlight reel.

He sees your open car door. He sees the shattered marinara sauce. He sees you lying in the dirt, curled into a ball, your face beaten beyond recognition.

He said you couldn’t keep me. He said I belonged to him.

Your weak, agonizing whisper tears through his mind, shredding his sanity.

Garrett leans his head back against the wall, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth ache. He doesn’t just want you to survive. He needs you to survive. He needs you to wake up so he can look you in the eyes and tell you everything he’s been too cowardly to say for the last month.

He wants to tell you that the house feels empty when you aren’t in it. That he purposefully sits on the edge of the couch just so his leg can brush against yours. That the sound of your laugh when Dean makes a stupid joke is the only thing that actually settles the dark, anxious noise in his brain.

He is falling in love with you.

He knows it with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He has been falling since the night you walked into his exam room in those ridiculous pink scrubs and touched his face with hands so gentle they made him want to cry.

“Garrett Graham?”

Garrett’s eyes snap open.

Standing in the doorway of the waiting room is Dr. Gardner.

The surgeon looks entirely exhausted. He has changed out of his blood-stained white coat and is wearing fresh green surgical scrubs. A blue surgical cap is still tied around his head, and his face is deeply lined with fatigue.

Garrett shoots up from his chair so fast it tips backward, crashing loudly against the floor.

Tucker and Dean are on their feet a split second later. Logan jogs back into the room, holding a cardboard tray of coffees, freezing in his tracks at the sight of the doctor.

None of them speak. The air is completely sucked out of the room. Garrett feels his heart climb directly into his throat, beating a frantic, terrifying rhythm.

Dr. Gardner looks at the four massive hockey players. He lets out a slow, measured breath.

“Before I say anything,” Dr. Gardner starts, his voice low and serious, “I need you to understand that legally, I am not supposed to give you this information. You aren’t family. You aren’t her emergency contacts.”

Garrett’s chest caves in. “Please.”

It’s the only word he can manage. It’s a broken, desperate plea.

Dr. Gardner holds up a hand, his expression softening into profound empathy. “However. I have worked with her for over a year. And for the last three and a half weeks, she has not shut up about the four hockey players she lives with. She talks about how Tucker cooks better than a five-star chef. How Dean is a menace but means well. How Logan is secretly a giant softie.”

The doctor turns his gaze directly to Garrett.

“And she talks about you,” Dr. Gardner says softly. “She talks about how you saved her life. So, as far as I’m concerned, you boys are her family. And you deserve to know what’s going on.”

“Is she alive?” Garrett asks, his voice trembling so violently he barely recognizes it.

“She is alive,” Dr. Gardner confirms immediately.

The collective exhale in the room is staggering. Dean literally sags against the wall, burying his face in his hands. Tucker grips the back of a chair, his eyes dropping to the ceiling in silent prayer. Logan sets the tray of coffees down on a side table with shaking hands.

Garrett feels his knees threaten to buckle, but he forces himself to stay standing. “What happened? How bad is it?”

Dr. Gardner rubs the back of his neck, shifting into his clinical, professional mode. “It’s bad, Garrett. I won’t sugarcoat it. The blunt force trauma she sustained was severe.”

Garrett braces himself. “Tell me.”

“When she arrived, her blood pressure was plummeting due to internal bleeding,” Dr. Gardner explains, keeping his voice steady. “We rushed her into surgery and discovered a Grade 4 laceration to her spleen. It was ruptured beyond repair. We had to perform a full splenectomy to stop the bleeding. She’ll have a compromised immune system moving forward, but she can live a full life without it.”

“Okay,” Garrett nods rapidly, processing the information. “Okay, what else?”

“She has three broken ribs on her left side, and two cracked on the right,” the surgeon continues. “The defensive bruising on her forearms is extensive, but luckily, there are no fractures in her arms or wrists.”

“And her face?” Logan asks, his voice thick with anger. “She was completely unrecognizable.”

Dr. Gardner’s jaw tightens. “The facial trauma was significant. She has a severe orbital blowout fracture on her left side — the bone underneath the eye socket was crushed. We had an oral and maxillofacial surgeon come in to set a titanium plate to rebuild the floor of the socket and save her vision. Her nose is broken in two places, we reset it in the OR.”

Garrett feels a fresh wave of violent nausea wash over him. The visual of his father taking his massive, heavy fists and crushing the delicate bones of your face is enough to make him want to put his fist through the waiting room drywall.

“What about her brain?” Tucker asks gently. “She was unconscious when the paramedics took her.”

“That is our primary concern right now,” Dr. Gardner says, his expression turning grave. “She suffered a severe concussion. We did a CT scan before taking her up to the OR. There is no active brain bleed, which is a massive relief, but there is significant swelling. A traumatic brain injury.”

“So what does that mean?” Garrett demands, stepping closer to the doctor. “When does she wake up?”

“Right now, she is heavily sedated and intubated in the ICU,” Dr. Gardner explains. “We are keeping her on a ventilator to protect her airway while the facial swelling goes down, and to keep her brain resting. We will slowly wean her off the paralytics and sedation over the next twenty-four hours to see how she responds.”

“But she’s stable?” Garrett pleads.

“She is in critical but stable condition,” Dr. Gardner corrects carefully. “She made it through the surgery. That was the hardest part. Now, we just have to wait for her body to heal.”

“Can I see her?” Garrett asks instantly. He doesn’t care about ICU rules or visiting hours. If Dr. Gardner tells him no, he will tear this hospital apart barehanded to find you.

Dr. Gardner looks at Garrett, taking in the bloodstained clothes, the wild, desperate exhaustion in his dark eyes.

“ICU protocol says immediate family only,” Dr. Gardner says quietly. He reaches into his scrub pocket and pulls out a visitor pass. “But like I said. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family. Just you, Garrett. The rest of the boys can come in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Garrett breathes, taking the pass. “Doc, I … thank you.”

“Room 219,” Dr. Gardner says. “She looks worse than she did down in the alley, Garrett. The swelling from the surgery is peaking. Brace yourself.”

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He turns to the guys.

“Go home,” Garrett tells them. “Get some sleep. Bring some fresh clothes tomorrow.”

“We’re not leaving, G,” Logan says firmly, already walking over to the waiting room couch and throwing his jacket down like a blanket. “We’ll sleep right here.”

“I’m not leaving without seeing her,” Dean adds stubbornly, crossing his arms.

Garrett looks at his best friends. He doesn’t have the energy to argue, and honestly, knowing they are right outside the ICU doors brings him a strange sort of comfort.

“Okay,” Garrett whispers.

He turns and walks out of the waiting room.

The Intensive Care Unit is a completely different world from the emergency room. The lights are dimmed, casting a quiet, clinical hush over the wide hallways. There is no shouting, no running. Just the rhythmic, terrifyingly steady beeping of heart monitors and the mechanical whoosh of ventilators keeping people alive.

Garrett walks down the hall, his boots silent against the floor.

He stops outside Room 219.

The door is made of heavy glass. He can see right inside.

He puts his hand on the metal handle, but for a second, he can’t bring himself to push it down. Dr. Gardner warned him. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality of seeing you like this.

He pushes the door open and steps inside.

The room is freezing cold, designed to keep bacteria at bay. It smells like sharp antiseptic and iodine.

You are lying in the center of the room, completely surrounded by machines.

Garrett walks slowly to the side of your bed, his heart breaking into a million jagged pieces.

You look incredibly small. The heavy hospital blankets are pulled up to your chest, hiding the bandages from your surgery and the wrap around your broken ribs. But he can’t hide from your face.

Dr. Gardner was right. The swelling is horrific. Your entire face is bruised, puffed, and distorted. Your left eye is completely swollen shut, covered by a white sterile patch protecting the newly placed titanium plate. A heavy plastic brace encompasses your neck, keeping your spine perfectly still.

And sticking out of your mouth, taped securely to your cheek, is the thick, ribbed plastic tube of the ventilator.

The machine beside your bed hisses and clicks, forcing air into your lungs, making your chest rise and fall in a harsh, mechanical rhythm.

“Y/N,” Garrett whispers.

He reaches the side of the bed. He wants to touch your face, to stroke your hair, but he is terrified of hurting you. He is terrified of adding even a fraction of an ounce of pain to what you are already enduring.

He looks down at your right hand. It rests on top of the blue hospital blanket. There is an IV port taped to the back of your hand, wires running from your fingertips to the monitor above your head.

But your palm is open.

Garrett sinks into the hard plastic chair beside your bed. He slowly, carefully reaches out and slides his large, calloused hand under yours.

Your skin is cold. The contrast to the vibrant, warm girl who was teasing him about grocery shopping just six hours ago is devastating.

He gently wraps his fingers around yours, securing your small hand safely within his grip. He avoids the IV lines, mindful of the bruises painting your forearm.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and brings your knuckles to his lips.

He presses a long, agonizingly gentle kiss to your bruised skin.

He closes his eyes, letting the tears fall freely now. They slip down his cheeks and soak into the fabric of the hospital blanket.

“I’m so sorry,” Garrett cries softly, his voice breaking in the quiet room. “I should have gone with you. I should have made sure you were safe. I promised you he wouldn’t get near you again, and I broke my promise.”

The ventilator hisses. The heart monitor beeps. You don’t respond.

Garrett keeps your hand pressed tightly against his mouth. He breathes in the faint scent of the surgical soap they used to wash you, desperate to find even a trace of the vanilla shampoo he knows so well.

“But I’m making a new promise,” Garrett whispers into the quiet room. He lifts his head, his eyes locking onto your battered face.

The homicidal rage from the alleyway is still there, burning like a low, hot coal in his chest, but right now, it is entirely eclipsed by his love for you.

“I’m not leaving,” Garrett vows, his voice steadying, hardening with absolute resolve. “I am going to sit in this chair until you wake up. I don’t care if it takes a day, or a week, or a month. I’m right here.”

He gently runs his thumb over the unbruised patch of skin on the back of your hand.

“And when you wake up,” Garrett says, fresh tears filling his eyes, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never look over your shoulder again. You hear me? You’re mine now. And nobody touches what’s mine.”

He leans forward again, pressing another soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Just come back to me,” he pleads. “Please, Y/N. Just come back.”

Garrett settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. He doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his thumb brushing back and forth over your skin, his eyes locked on the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Outside the glass doors, the hospital continues its chaotic rush. Outside the building, the police are hunting down the monster who did this.

But inside Room 219, there is only the quiet, desperate vigil of a boy who finally realizes what he has to lose, and the slow, mechanical breathing of the girl he intends to save.

***

Time in the Intensive Care Unit does not exist.

There is no day, no night. There is only the harsh, unnatural glow of fluorescent lights, the rhythmic, hissing plunge of the ventilator, and the agonizingly slow crawl of the digital clock on the wall.

It has been forty-eight hours since the paramedics wheeled you through the sliding glass doors of the emergency room.

Garrett has not left the hard plastic chair beside your bed.

He is a ghost of himself. The charismatic, untouchable captain of the Briar Hawks is gone, replaced by a terrified, hollowed-out boy. His dark hair is wild and greasy. A thick, dark layer of stubble covers his jaw. He is wearing the same black t-shirt and dark jeans, though Tucker managed to sneak a clean Briar Hockey hoodie over his shoulders at some point during the first night.

The boys have been a constant, rotating presence. Logan slept on the waiting room floor the first night. Dean spent yesterday pacing a groove into the linoleum hallway outside the ICU doors. Tucker has been acting as a ruthless gatekeeper, bringing Garrett black coffee and forcing him to eat half a stale hospital sandwich every twelve hours.

But none of them can reach him.

Garrett’s entire world has shrunk to the three feet of space between his chair and your bed. His eyes are perpetually locked on the steady, artificial rise and fall of your chest. His large hand remains wrapped tightly around your cold, limp fingers, a desperate physical tether keeping you grounded to the earth.

“Garrett.”

The soft voice comes from the doorway.

Garrett doesn’t turn his head. He just blinks, his red-rimmed eyes burning with exhaustion.

Dr. Gardner steps into the quiet room, holding a tablet. He looks slightly more rested than he did two nights ago, but his professional demeanor is still laced with deep concern.

“We need to talk about the sedation,” Dr. Gardner says quietly, moving to the foot of your bed.

Garrett finally looks up. His chest tightens. “Is something wrong? Did the swelling get worse?”

“No,” the doctor reassures him immediately. “Actually, the swelling in her brain has stabilized. Her intracranial pressure is holding at a safe level. Her vitals are strong. She’s fighting, Garrett.”

Garrett lets out a ragged, trembling exhale, closing his eyes for a split second. “Okay. That’s good. Right?”

“It’s very good,” Dr. Gardner nods. “Which means it’s time to take her off the paralytics and lower the propofol. We need to see if she can breathe on her own. We need to extubate her.”

Garrett grips your hand a fraction tighter. “Will it hurt?”

“Taking the tube out is uncomfortable,” the surgeon admits honestly. “Her throat is going to be incredibly raw, and waking up with a broken ribs and a shattered orbital floor is going to be a shock to her system. We have her on a heavy morphine drip for the pain, but the disorientation is going to be severe. She might panic.”

“I’ll keep her calm,” Garrett says instantly. His voice leaves absolutely zero room for doubt. “Just do whatever you have to do to get that thing out of her throat.”

“Alright,” Dr. Gardner says. He turns to the cluster of machines. “I’m going to dial back the drip. A respiratory therapist will be in shortly. Once the tube is out, it might still take a few hours for her to fully wake up. Be patient.”

The doctor adjusts the monitors, checks your chart one last time, and quietly leaves the room.

Garrett turns his attention entirely back to you.

The wait is excruciating. The respiratory therapist comes in, performs the awful, gag-inducing procedure of pulling the thick plastic tube from your airway, and replaces it with a simple oxygen cannula resting under your broken nose.

You cough weakly during the process, a terrible, wet sound that makes Garrett want to put his fist through the wall, but you don’t open your eyes. You just slip right back into a deep, drug-induced sleep.

So, Garrett waits.

Another three hours pass.

The silence in the room is different now. The mechanical hissing of the ventilator is gone, replaced by the soft, shallow sound of your own natural breathing.

Garrett leans forward, resting his forehead against the edge of your mattress. His thumb traces a slow, methodical circle over the back of your hand.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers into the quiet room, his voice cracking with raw desperation. “Please. Just open your eyes. I need you to open your eyes.”

And then, a miracle happens.

Your fingers twitch.

It’s a tiny movement, barely a flutter against his palm, but Garrett feels it like a lightning strike.

His head snaps up.

“Y/N?” He breathes, his heart launching into a frantic, violent rhythm against his ribs.

He stands up, hovering over the side of the bed.

You groan. It’s a low, raspy, agonizing sound that scrapes against the rawness of your throat. Your head shifts a fraction of an inch against the

pillow, immediately halted by the rigid plastic of the cervical collar locked around your neck.

“Don’t move,” Garrett says instantly, his free hand flying up to hover gently over your shoulder, terrified to actually touch you and cause you pain. “Don’t try to move. You’re in a neck brace. You’re safe.”

Your uninjured right eye flutters. The eyelashes tremble against your swollen cheek.

It takes an agonizingly long minute, but slowly, fighting against the heavy weight of the sedatives, your eye opens.

The world is a blurry, confusing mess.

The light is too bright. The room is too cold. A localized, blinding agony radiates from the left side of your face, completely shielded by a thick white patch. Your chest feels like someone dropped an anvil on it, every shallow breath sparking a sharp, stabbing fire in your ribs.

Panic, thick and immediate, begins to claw its way up your throat.

Where are you? Why can’t you move your neck? Why is it so hard to breathe?

The heart monitor by your bed begins to beep faster, matching the sudden, terrified spike of your pulse.

“Hey,” a voice says.

A shadow blocks the harsh overhead light.

You blink, trying to force your single open eye to focus. The blurry shape above you slowly sharpens into recognizable features.

Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Eyes so impossibly warm that they anchor you to the earth.

Garrett.

He is leaning over you. He looks terrible. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a year. His eyes are bloodshot, his jaw covered in scruff, his face pale and tight with an anxiety so profound it practically vibrates off him.

But he is here.

“I’m right here,” Garrett whispers. His voice is a rough, gravelly rasp, trembling with unshed tears. “I’ve got you. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

You try to swallow, but your throat feels like it’s coated in broken glass. You let out a small, pained whimper.

Garrett’s face crumbles. “I know. I know it hurts. God, I know. You had a breathing tube in. Don’t try to talk.”

You look at him. You really look at him.

The panic slowly begins to recede, beaten back by the heavy, comforting weight of his hand wrapped around yours.

The memories hit you in disjointed, terrifying flashes.

The dark alleyway behind the Market Basket. The blinding pain. The suffocating terror of Phil’s massive hands. The feeling of the cold asphalt pressing into your cheek as you waited to die.

You squeeze your eye shut as a tear escapes, hot and stinging against your battered skin.

“Hey, look at me,” Garrett pleads softly. He reaches up with a trembling hand and gently, so incredibly gently, wipes the tear away with his thumb. “He’s gone. The police arrested him at his house in Connecticut yesterday morning. He’s locked up, Y/N. He can never, ever hurt you again.”

You open your eye, staring up at the beautiful, broken boy standing beside your bed.

He caught the monster. He kept his promise.

Garrett lets out a shuddering breath, his broad shoulders suddenly caving inward as if the structural integrity of his entire body has just failed.

He drops to his knees beside your bed.

He presses his forehead against the mattress, right next to your hip. He doesn’t let go of your hand; he brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles over and over again, completely uncaring that his tears are soaking into your skin.

“I am so sorry,” Garrett chokes out. The words are a broken, ragged sob, torn from the deepest, most wounded part of his soul. “I am so fucking sorry.”

You frown, confusion cutting through the heavy haze of the morphine.

Why is he apologizing?

“Garrett,” you try to say.

It comes out as a harsh, breathless croak. It hurts. It burns your throat and pulls at the muscles in your neck.

Garrett’s head snaps up. “Don’t talk. Please, baby, save your strength.”

He just called you baby. Not in the casual, teasing way the college guys at Briar throw the word around. He said it with a devastating, reverent kind of love.

“I did this to you,” Garrett cries, the guilt pouring out of him like blood from a severed artery. He shakes his head frantically, his dark eyes wide and tortured. “This is my fault. I brought you into my mess. I thought I could just walk into his house, scream in his face, and walk away. I thought I was protecting you by taking you to my house, but all I did was paint a target on your back.”

You stare at him, completely horrified by the words coming out of his mouth.

He actually believes this. He has been sitting in this miserable, freezing hospital room for two days, convincing himself that he is the villain. Convincing himself that Phil’s violence is a direct result of his own actions.

“If I had just kept my mouth shut,” Garrett spirals, the tears tracking freely down his face, cutting paths through the exhaustion. “If I hadn’t humiliated him in front of you. If I had driven you home myself instead of letting you go to the store alone. I promised you were safe, and I left you alone.”

He drops his head back to the mattress, a harsh, guttural sound of pure self-hatred tearing from his throat.

“I’m a monster,” Garrett whispers into the blankets. “I’m just like him. I destroy everything I touch.”

The words hit you harder than any physical blow Phil landed in that alleyway.

The physical pain radiating through your body is excruciating. Your ribs scream every time you breathe, your head is pounding with a blinding, concussive pressure, and your throat is on fire.

But none of that matters right now.

What matters is the man weeping beside your bed. The man who gave up his bedroom for you. The man who stood between you and his teammates like a human shield. The man who is currently drowning in a sea of toxic, misplaced guilt.

You tighten your grip on his hand. You don’t have much strength, but you squeeze his fingers as hard as you possibly can.

Garrett lifts his head, his eyes immediately searching your face. “What? Does something hurt? Should I press the call button?”

You slowly, painstakingly, shake your head. The movement jostles the neck brace, sending a fresh spike of pain down your spine, but you ignore it.

You look him dead in the eye.

“Not,” you whisper.

The single word tears at your raw vocal cords. It sounds terrible. But you don’t stop. You force the breath from your bruised lungs, pushing past the agonizing pain in your ribs.

“Your,” you croak, your voice shaking with effort.

Garrett stares at you, his chest heaving, his eyes wide. “Y/N, stop. Please.”

“Fault,” you finish.

The three words hang in the quiet air of the ICU, heavier than gravity, louder than a gunshot.

Garrett freezes. He completely stops breathing.

He looks at you, taking in the horrific swelling of your face, the white patch over your eye, the thick plastic collar, the wires snaking across your chest. You have been beaten to within an inch of your life. You have had an organ removed. Your face has been rebuilt with titanium.

And the very first thing you do when you wake up is comfort him.

You don’t ask for pain medicine. You don’t ask what happened. You don’t complain about the agony you are in.

You look at the boy who thinks he ruined your life, and you use your incredibly limited, agonizing strength to absolve him.

The absolute, uncompromising selflessness of it shatters the very last defense mechanism Garrett possesses.

The wall he has spent twenty-one years building — the wall that survived his father’s fists, the wall that survived his mother’s death, the wall that made him the ruthless, untouchable hockey captain — crumbles into dust.

Garrett breaks. He completely falls apart.

A sob rips its way out of his throat. He practically collapses against the side of your bed. He buries his face in the space between your arm and your ribcage, mindful not to put any weight on your actual injuries, but needing to be as close to you as physically possible.

His massive shoulders shake violently. He weeps. Hard, ugly, breath-stealing sobs that wrack his entire frame.

“God,” Garrett cries, his voice muffled by the hospital blankets. “God, I love you. I love you so much it feels like I’m dying.”

Your single open eye widens slightly.

He loves you.

The confession is messy, desperate, and completely lacking any sort of romantic, cinematic polish. It is delivered in a freezing ICU room, smelling of iodine and fear, by a boy who is actively having an emotional breakdown against your arm.

And it is the most beautiful thing you have ever heard.

You can’t move much. Your left arm is restricted by the IV lines, and your ribs scream in protest when you try to shift your torso.

But you manage to lift your right hand.

Your fingers are shaking, weak and uncoordinated from the sedatives. But you slowly guide your hand up, past the heavy blankets, until your palm finds the back of his neck.

Your fingers tangle in the dark, greasy hair at his nape.

Garrett gasps at the touch. He shudders violently, leaning heavily into your weak caress as if your hand is the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the earth.

“Shh,” you manage to whisper. The sound is barely a breath, but he hears it.

You stroke his hair. It’s a slow, repetitive motion. You don’t have the strength to do anything else.

Garrett cries for what feels like an eternity. He cries for the terrifying night in the alleyway. He cries for the hours spent staring through the glass of Trauma Bay One. He cries for his mother, for the little boy who couldn’t save her, and for the man who almost lost the only other woman he has ever truly loved.

He pours all of his poison, all of his trauma, all of his fear out onto the sheets of your hospital bed.

And you just hold him.

You let him break. You let him fall apart, completely and totally, because you know that for the first time in his life, he has someone who is going to help him put the pieces back together.

Eventually, the violent shaking of his shoulders begins to slow. His ragged, torn sobs quiet into deep, stuttering breaths.

He doesn’t lift his head right away. He just lies there, his face buried in the blankets, his hand still locked in a death grip around yours.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett mumbles, his voice thick and exhausted. He sniffles loudly, a very un-captain-like sound. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you. I’m not supposed to be falling apart on your bed.”

You let out a tiny, breathy sound that is meant to be a laugh, but quickly turns into a wince as it pulls at your ribs.

Garrett’s head snaps up instantly, panic flaring back to life in his eyes. He wipes his face roughly with the back of his sleeve, smearing tears and exhaustion together.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks frantically, hovering over you again. “I put too much weight on the bed. I’ll get the nurse-”

“Garrett,” you croak, stopping him before he can hit the call button.

He freezes. “Yeah. Yes, baby, I’m here.”

You swallow hard, fighting the sandpaper dryness in your throat. You look at his red, swollen eyes. He looks completely wrecked. But the dark, heavy shadow of toxic guilt that has been suffocating him for the last forty-eight hours has lifted.

“I love you, too,” you whisper.

The words are weak. They are raspy. They lack volume.

But they hit Garrett with the force of a freight train.

He stares at you. His lips part, his dark eyes searching your face as if he’s afraid he hallucinated the sound.

“You do?” He asks, his voice cracking on the question. It’s the most vulnerable you have ever seen him. The arrogant hockey star is nowhere to be found. He is just a boy, desperate for love, terrified of rejection.

You give him a tiny, incredibly slow nod, mindful of the neck brace.

“Since the ER,” you admit, the truth slipping out easily, despite the pain it takes to speak.

Garrett lets out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob.

He leans down. He is incredibly careful, treating you like you are made of spun glass. He supports his own weight on his forearms, ensuring he doesn’t press against your chest or your injured side.

He bypasses the heavy white patch over your left eye. He avoids your broken nose and your split lip.

Instead, he presses his mouth gently against the unbruised skin of your forehead, right at your hairline.

His lips are warm, soft, and trembling. He lingers there, breathing you in, pressing all of his relief, all of his devotion, and all of his love into that single, agonizingly gentle kiss.

“I am never letting you go,” Garrett whispers against your skin, his breath fanning across your face. “Do you understand me? You’re stuck with me. Forever.”

“Good,” you whisper back, your eye fluttering shut as exhaustion begins to drag you back under. The morphine is heavy in your veins, pulling at your consciousness.

Garrett pulls back just far enough to look at your face. He sees the heavy droop of your eyelid, the sluggish blink.

“Go to sleep, baby,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb resuming its gentle stroke across the back of your hand. “You’re safe. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” You mumble, the word slurring slightly.

“I swear to God,” Garrett says fiercely.

He settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. But he doesn’t look like a terrified ghost anymore. He looks like a man who has just been handed the entire universe.

You let your eye close.

The pain is still there. The road to recovery is going to be incredibly long, terrifying, and grueling. There will be police statements to give, trials to attend, physical therapy to endure, and nightmares to fight.

But as the steady rhythm of the heart monitor lulls you back to sleep, and the warm, calloused hand of the boy who loves you holds you tight, the paralyzing fear that has dictated your life for the past year is finally gone.

Because Phil Graham is in a cage.

And you are exactly where you are supposed to be.

***

The sound of the door clicking open pulls Garrett from a light doze.

It has been two hours since you fell back asleep. Garrett hasn’t moved an inch. He is exhausted down to the marrow of his bones, but his heart is lighter than it has been in years.

He turns his head.

Standing in the doorway of the ICU room are Logan, Dean, and Tucker.

They look terrible. They are all wearing Briar Hockey sweats, their hair messy, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Logan is holding a cardboard tray with four coffees. Dean is clutching a small, stuffed teddy bear wearing a miniature nurse’s uniform.

They freeze in the doorway, staring at you.

“Hey,” Garrett says softly, not wanting to wake you.

The three massive hockey players snap their attention to Garrett. They take in the change in his posture. He is no longer hunched over like a man waiting for an execution. He is sitting back in his chair, a small, weary, but incredibly genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth.

Tucker’s eyes widen. “Garrett …”

“She woke up,” Garrett whispers.

The reaction is instantaneous.

Dean drops his head back against the doorframe, a loud, shuddering breath escaping his lips. “Oh, thank God. Thank fucking God.”

Logan sets the coffee tray down on a nearby rolling cart with a hand that is visibly shaking. He walks over to the bed, stopping on the side opposite Garrett. He looks down at your bruised, swollen face, the white eye patch, the heavy neck brace.

“Is she …” Logan swallows hard. “Is she okay?”

“She’s hurting,” Garrett says honestly. “She can barely talk. But she knows where she is. She knows we’re here. And she knows they caught him.”

“Good,” Tucker says, stepping into the room. He looks at you, his expression softening into that familiar, protective warmth. “Because if they hadn’t caught him, I was going to buy a shovel and take a road trip.”

“You wouldn’t have gone alone,” Dean mutters, walking over and placing the small stuffed nurse bear gently on the nightstand next to your bed. “I brought her a friend. Figured she could use another nurse on duty.”

Garrett looks at the ridiculous little bear, and then back at his best friends.

These guys didn’t hesitate. They didn’t ask questions. They took you in, they protected you, and they sat in a miserable hospital waiting room for two days because you are family.

“Thanks, guys,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

Logan waves him off. “Shut up, G. We didn’t do shit.”

“You did,” Garrett insists. He looks back down at your sleeping face. “You kept me from losing my mind. And you gave her a home.”

“She gave us a home,” Tucker corrects softly. He pulls a chair over from the corner of the room and sits down. “This house was a disaster before she started organizing the triage center and making Dean eat vegetables.”

Dean nods solemnly. “I miss the vegetables. I really do.”

Garrett actually laughs. It’s a quiet, rusty sound, but it feels incredibly good.

The four of them settle into the room. It’s cramped, it’s cold, and it smells like antiseptic.

But as Garrett sits there, surrounded by his brothers, holding the hand of the girl he loves, the ICU room doesn’t feel like a hospital anymore.

It feels like the beginning of the rest of his life.

***

Two and a half years.

That is how long it takes to put the shattered pieces of a life back together.

It takes months of grueling physical therapy, a second surgery to adjust the titanium plate beneath your left eye, and countless hours sitting on the worn couch in the off-campus house, letting Garrett, Logan, Dean, and Tucker simply exist around you until the phantom footsteps in the hallway no longer make your heart race.

It takes Phil Graham being sentenced to fifteen years in a maximum-security prison without the possibility of early parole, his legacy as an NHL player erased by the horrifying reality of his domestic abuse convictions.

And it takes time.

But as you stand in the tunnel of the TD Garden, the phantom roar of eighteen thousand fans vibrating through the concrete floor beneath your feet, you know every single agonizing second was worth it.

You watch the ice through the glass.

Garrett is a blur of black and gold. He wears number seventeen, his broad shoulders easily carrying the weight of the iconic spoked B on his chest. He skates backward, his eyes scanning the play, and intercepts a pass with a fluid, effortless grace that makes the crowd erupt into a frenzy.

He is twenty-three years old, newly graduated from Briar University, and currently the most beloved undrafted free agent the Boston Bruins have signed this century.

The whistle blows, signaling the end of the morning skate. The players begin filing off the ice, their skates clattering against the rubber mats of the tunnel.

Garrett takes his helmet off, running a gloved hand through his sweat-dampened dark hair. He is joking with one of the veteran defensemen, a relaxed, brilliant smile lighting up his face.

Then, he sees you.

The smile softens, turning instantly intimate. He breaks away from the pack and skates straight toward the open gate where you are standing.

“Hey,” Garrett breathes, stepping off the ice. He smells like fresh sweat, cold air, and athletic tape. It is the best smell in the world.

“Hey yourself,” you smile, reaching out to rest a hand on the solid plastic plating of his chest pad. “You looked good out there. Your line is clicking.”

“We’re getting there,” Garrett says, leaning down to press a quick, cold kiss to your lips, uncaring of the equipment managers and staff rushing past. He pulls back and traces his thumb gently over your cheekbone, right over the faint, pale scar that rests beneath your eye. “You ready to head back to the apartment? The guys are coming over for dinner tonight. Tuck’s making lasagna.”

“I’m ready,” you nod. “Go shower. You stink.”

Garrett laughs, a deep, rich sound that settles deep in your chest. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

You watch him jog down the tunnel toward the locker room, your heart swelling with an overwhelming, terrifying amount of love.

Life is good. It is safe.

But safety, especially when you are suddenly thrust into the blinding spotlight of professional sports, is a fragile illusion.

***

The shift happens later that afternoon.

You and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island of your new, shared off-campus apartment. It’s a massive upgrade from the chaotic Briar hockey house, though you only live three blocks away from the guys. You are currently chopping vegetables for Tucker’s impending lasagna invasion, while Garrett is sitting on a barstool, scrolling casually through his phone.

Suddenly, Garrett freezes.

The easy, relaxed posture of his shoulders vanishes, instantly replaced by rigid, coiled tension. The color drains completely from his face, leaving his skin a sallow, ashen gray.

“Garrett?” You ask, putting the knife down. You wipe your hands on a dish towel, your heart rate spiking in response to his sudden shift. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. His dark eyes are locked onto the screen of his phone, scanning the text with a terrifying, absolute stillness. His jaw ticks violently.

“Garrett, talk to me,” you urge, stepping around the island and placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles feel like solid rock under his t-shirt. “What’s wrong?”

Garrett slowly lowers the phone. He looks at you, and the sheer, unadulterated fury in his eyes makes you take a half-step back. He isn’t angry at you — he could never be angry at you — but the violent, protective rage practically bleeding off him is suffocating.

“They found a picture,” Garrett says. His voice is a low, deadly rasp.

“Who?” You ask, confusion clouding your mind. “A picture of what?”

Garrett looks down at his phone again, his thumb hovering over the screen as if he wants to crush the glass into dust. Without another word, he turns the phone around and slides it across the granite counter toward you.

You look down.

It is an article from a notorious, sleazy sports gossip blog. The headline is blazoned in bold, aggressive text.

BOSTON’S NEW GOLDEN BOY AND HIS TWISTED FAMILY SECRET: IS GARRETT GRAHAM DATING HIS DAD’S EX?

The air in your lungs vanishes.

Below the headline is a split-screen image. On the left is a recent, high-definition photo of you and Garrett walking out of the TD Garden, holding hands, laughing at something he said.

On the right is a photo you haven’t seen in three years.

It’s a blurry, poorly lit paparazzi shot from a charity gala in New York. You are standing next to Phil Graham. You are wearing a stiff, uncomfortable evening gown, your face pale and hollow, your smile tight and forced. Phil has a heavy, possessive hand gripping your waist.

The text of the article is sickening.

Bruins rookie sensation Garrett Graham has been winning over the hearts of Boston with his stellar play and squeaky-clean image. But sources have recently uncovered a highly questionable skeletons in the Graham family closet. The mystery brunette Garrett has been parading around the city? That’s Y/N. A twenty-five-year-old nurse who, just a few short years ago, was playing arm candy for Garrett’s disgraced, currently-incarcerated father, Phil Graham.

Talk about keeping it in the family. While the details of Phil’s sudden imprisonment remain strictly sealed under state records, one has to wonder if this twisted love triangle had something to do with the NHL legend’s sudden fall from grace. Did the son steal the father’s girl? Or is Boston’s new golden boy just picking up his dad’s leftovers?

You stare at the screen, your vision blurring as a cold, terrifying numbness spreads from your chest all the way down to your fingertips.

The world begins to tilt.

The smell of the chopped basil on the cutting board makes you violently nauseous. You hear the phantom, heavy thud of Phil’s boots on the stairs. You feel the cold, sharp bite of the asphalt against your cheek.

“Hey,” Garrett’s voice cuts through the rising panic, firm and immediate.

His large, warm hands grip your arms, physically anchoring you to the present moment. He pulls you away from the phone, stepping into your line of sight so all you can see is his face.

“Look at me,” Garrett demands softly. “Y/N, look at me.”

You force your eyes to focus on him. You are trembling. The phantom pain in your ribs, a ghost from three years ago, suddenly flares hot and bright.

“They put his face on the internet next to mine,” you whisper, your voice cracking completely. “They think … Garrett, they think …”

“I know what they think,” Garrett says, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your biceps. His eyes are blazing with a terrifying intensity, a ruthless, protective fire that burns away the shadows in the room. “And it doesn’t matter. They don’t know the truth. They’re bottom-feeding scum looking for clicks.”

“Everyone is going to see this,” you sob, the panic finally breaking through. “The team. The fans. Your coaches. They’re going to think you’re involved in some sick, twisted drama. I’m going to ruin this for you.”

“Stop,” Garrett says instantly. He gives your arms a gentle, bracing shake. “Do not do that. Do you hear me? You are not ruining anything. You are my life. I don’t give a flying fuck what some garbage blog says. I don’t care what the fans think. I only care about you.”

He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. You grip the fabric of his t-shirt, burying your face in his neck, drawing in deep, desperate breaths of his cedarwood scent.

Suddenly, Garrett’s phone buzzes on the counter. Then it buzzes again. And again.

Garrett doesn’t let go of you. He reaches out blindly, grabs the phone, and checks the screen.

“It’s Logan,” Garrett murmurs. “The guys saw it.”

He answers the call and puts it on speaker, tossing the phone back onto the island.

“Tell me you saw it,” Logan’s voice barks through the speaker. He doesn’t sound like his usual laid-back self; he sounds absolutely homicidal.

“We saw it,” Garrett says, his arm tightening around your waist.

“I’m going to burn their server room to the ground,” Dean chimes in, his voice vibrating with rage. “I have a buddy who knows a guy in cyber security. We can take the whole site offline.”

“We are not committing a federal crime, Dean,” Tucker’s voice cuts in, calm but completely deadly. “Garrett, is she okay?”

You pull your face away from Garrett’s neck. You lean toward the phone, forcing your voice to steady. “I’m okay, Tuck.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Tucker says softly. “We’re on our way over. We’re bringing the lasagna, and we are locking the doors, and we are ignoring the internet for the rest of the night.”

“The team’s PR director just texted me,” Garrett says, picking up his phone and swiping down to read the notification. His jaw clenches. “They want me at the facility tomorrow morning for a media availability. They want to get ahead of the narrative before the game tomorrow night.”

“What are they telling you to say?” Logan demands.

“They want me to decline comment,” Garrett reads the text out loud, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “They want me to say it’s a private family matter and redirect to hockey.”

“Bullshit,” Dean spits. “You can’t let them drag her name through the mud like that. They called her leftovers, G. If you don’t say something, I’m going down there to the press pit myself.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously quiet. It is the voice of the captain who dragged a broken team to a national championship. It is the voice of a man who watched the woman he loves nearly die in an alleyway.

“I’m handling this tomorrow,” Garrett promises, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I’m ending this. Permanently.”

***

The media room at the Bruins’ practice facility is packed.

It is usually a routine, boring affair. A few beat reporters asking about line chemistry and power-play percentages. But today, the room is buzzing with a chaotic, electric energy. The gossip blog post went viral overnight, picked up by mainstream sports outlets who are desperate to uncover the details behind the squeaky-clean rookie’s scandalous private life.

You are not at the hospital today. You called out.

Instead, you are sitting on the couch in your apartment, flanked by Logan on your left and Dean on your right, with Tucker standing behind the couch, his arms crossed.

The four of you are staring at the massive flat-screen TV, watching the live feed of the press conference.

Garrett walks up to the podium.

He is wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie. He looks incredibly handsome, but his face is completely devoid of its usual easy charm. His posture is rigid. His eyes are cold, dark, and utterly merciless.

The Bruins’ head of PR, a nervous-looking man in his late forties, steps up to the microphone first.

“Good morning, everyone,” the PR director says, holding up a hand to quiet the murmuring reporters. “Garrett will take a few questions regarding tomorrow night’s matchup against the Devils. We ask that you keep all questions strictly related to hockey. Garrett will not be commenting on any personal matters or internet rumors at this time.”

The PR director steps back, gesturing for Garrett to take the podium.

Garrett steps up to the microphones. He looks out over the sea of flashing cameras and hungry reporters.

A reporter in the front row, a guy notorious for asking sleazy, boundary-pushing questions, immediately raises his hand and speaks without waiting to be called on.

“Garrett, Terrance Reilly from Boston Sports Daily,” the reporter says loudly. “Your PR guy said no personal questions, but the fans want to know. The article that dropped yesterday regarding your girlfriend and your father, Phil Graham — can you confirm the timeline of that relationship? Is it true you started dating her while she was still involved with your father?”

The PR director immediately lunges forward, reaching for the microphone. “I said no personal questions, Terrance. We’re moving on-”

“No.”

Garrett’s voice cuts through the room like a crack of thunder.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t raise his voice. But the absolute, lethal authority in that single word makes the PR director freeze in his tracks, his hand hovering over the mic.

The entire press room goes dead silent.

Garrett leans forward, resting his hands on the edges of the podium. His knuckles are white. He stares directly at the reporter, his gaze so intense the reporter actually shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’m going to answer that question,” Garrett says, his voice vibrating with a dark, controlled fury. “And I am only going to say this once. So I suggest you all make sure your recorders are on.”

Back in the apartment, Logan leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes glued to the TV. “Give it to them, G.”

“The woman in that photograph,” Garrett begins, his voice carrying clearly through the speakers, “The woman this city has seen me with for the last two years, is my girlfriend. She is an incredible, brilliant pediatric nurse who spends her life taking care of sick children. And she is the bravest person I have ever met.”

Garrett pauses, taking a slow, measured breath. He is dismantling his privacy, tearing down the walls he spent years building, all to protect you.

“The article implies that my father’s imprisonment and my relationship with her are part of some scandalous love triangle,” Garrett continues, the disgust heavy in his tone. “It implies that she was playing us against each other. That is a lie. It is a disgusting, misogynistic piece of fiction designed to sell clicks.”

The reporters are furiously typing, completely silent, captivated by the raw, unscripted emotion pouring from the rookie.

“The truth,” Garrett says, his eyes turning hard as obsidian, “is that Phil Graham is not a hockey legend. He is a violent, cowardly abuser.”

A collective, shocked gasp ripples through the press room.

You suck in a breath on the couch, your hand flying up to cover your mouth. He is doing it. He is laying it all out there.

“He abused my mother until the day she died,” Garrett states flatly, refusing to shy away from the horrific reality of his past. “He abused me for eighteen years. And when he moved a young, vulnerable woman into his house, he abused her, too.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks. He looks out at the sea of cameras, but you know, deep in your bones, that he is speaking directly to you.

“I met her at a Thanksgiving dinner,” Garrett says, his voice softening just a fraction, the memory clearly visible in his eyes. “I saw the bruises he left on her arm. I told her to run, and I left. But she was trapped. She didn’t have anywhere to go.”

Garrett grips the podium tighter, leaning closer to the microphones.

“Three weeks later, I ended up in the emergency room at the hospital with a concussion,” Garrett says. “She was my nurse. And when she walked into my room, I saw what he had done to her. I saw the bruises on her face. I saw the terror in her eyes. I refused to leave that hospital without her. I moved her into my house, and I swore I would protect her from him.”

Garrett pauses, the heavy, suffocating silence of the press room hanging on his every word.

“He tracked her down at a grocery store a month later,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly rasp that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “He beat her so badly she required emergency surgery to rebuild her face and remove a ruptured organ. She nearly died in an alleyway because she had the courage to escape him.”

A reporter in the second row lowers her phone, her eyes wide with horror, a hand resting over her heart.

“Phil Graham is sitting in a maximum-security prison right now because he is a monster,” Garrett declares, his voice ringing with absolute finality. “He isn’t a victim of a love triangle. He is a domestic abuser who tried to murder the woman I love.”

Garrett stands up straight, stepping back from the podium slightly. He looks directly at Terrance Reilly.

“So, to answer your question,” Garrett says, his tone dripping with lethal contempt. “No, I didn’t steal my father’s girlfriend. I pulled a victim out of a nightmare. She is the strongest person I know, and I spend every single day thanking God that she survived. The only scandal here is that a garbage blog decided to re-traumatize a survivor of domestic violence for a headline.”

Garrett doesn’t wait for another question. He doesn’t look at the PR director.

He turns his back to the cameras, steps off the podium, and walks out of the press room, the heavy wooden door shutting firmly behind him.

The television broadcast cuts to a stunned anchor sitting at a news desk, fumbling for words.

Dean hits the mute button on the remote.

The apartment is dead silent.

You are crying. The tears are falling freely down your cheeks, hot and fast. You aren’t crying from fear, or from the trauma of the memories. You are crying because you have never felt so completely, unconditionally protected in your entire life.

Tucker reaches over the back of the couch and gently squeezes your shoulder. “He loves you. He loves you so damn much.”

“He just nuked his own privacy for me,” you whisper, wiping at your cheeks. “His past with his mom, his own abuse … he never talks about it. And he just put it on national television to defend me.”

“Because you’re worth it,” Logan says firmly, turning his head to look at you. “You’re his entire world, Y/N. He would burn the whole league to the ground if it meant keeping you safe. You know that.”

You do know that.

***

It takes Garrett forty minutes to get through the Boston traffic and back to the apartment.

When the front door unlocks and swings open, the guys are already gone. They left five minutes after the press conference ended, claiming they needed to go secure the perimeter, but really, they knew you needed to be alone with him.

Garrett walks into the apartment.

He looks exhausted. He has taken the suit jacket and tie off, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to expose his muscular forearms. He drops his keys onto the console table, closing the door behind him.

He looks up, and his dark eyes lock onto you standing in the middle of the living room.

The tension that was radiating off him during the press conference is completely gone. He just looks incredibly vulnerable, his chest heaving with a deep, shaky sigh.

“You saw it,” Garrett says quietly. It’s not a question.

“I saw it,” you whisper.

You don’t wait for him to take his shoes off. You cross the living room in three rapid strides and throw yourself at him.

Garrett catches you effortlessly. His massive arms wrap around your waist, hauling you flush against his body, lifting your feet off the hardwood floor. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting hot across your skin.

You wrap your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his dark hair, holding him as tightly as your healed ribs will allow.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett murmurs into your skin, his voice thick. “I’m sorry it got out. I’m sorry you had to see his face again.”

“Don’t apologize,” you cry softly, pulling back just far enough to cup his face in both of your hands. You look into his beautiful, tortured dark eyes. “Garrett, don’t you dare apologize. What you did today … what you said up there …”

“I meant every word,” Garrett says fiercely, leaning into your touch. He slides his hands up your back, resting them gently on your shoulder blades. “I wasn’t going to let them paint you as some sort of villain. You survived him. We survived him. And I am so damn proud to be yours.”

You trace your thumb over his cheekbone, your heart overflowing with a love so absolute it feels like gravity.

“You told the whole world about your mom,” you whisper, the magnitude of his sacrifice settling heavy in the quiet room. “You protected her memory, too.”

Garrett’s eyes soften, a sheen of tears making them shine in the afternoon light. He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“He doesn’t get to control the narrative anymore,” Garrett says, his voice steadying, finding peace in the truth. “He doesn’t get to hide behind his hockey stats or his money. The world knows exactly what he is now. And more importantly, the world knows exactly who you are.”

“Who am I?” You ask softly, a watery smile touching your lips.

Garrett opens his eyes. The darkness, the fear, the shadows of the past — they are all completely gone, replaced entirely by the bright, unyielding warmth of the future you have built together.

“You’re the girl who fixed my scrambled brain,” Garrett smiles, a genuine, breathtaking curve of his lips that reaches all the way to his eyes. He leans down, brushing his nose gently against yours. “You’re the center of my universe. And you’re never getting rid of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you whisper.

Garrett kisses you.

It isn’t frantic or desperate like the kisses in the hospital room two years ago. It is deep, slow, and devastatingly certain. It is a promise written in skin and breath, a vow that the nightmare is truly, finally over.

You kiss him back, pouring every ounce of your love into the man who stood in front of the world and fought for you.

When you finally pull away, resting your head against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart, you look around the quiet, sunlit apartment. You think of Logan, Dean, and Tucker, who are probably arguing over who gets to beat up Terrance Reilly first.

You think of the long, terrifying road that led you from a cold alleyway to this exact moment.

Garrett holds you tight, his chin resting on top of your head, swaying you gently back and forth in the quiet apartment.

The monsters are locked away. The shadows are gone.

He drags a hand down his face, feeling the tension already knotting in his shoulders. Being the captain and star center of the Briar University hockey team means he handles pressure for a living. He faces down two-hundred-pound defensemen who want to separate his head from his neck on a nightly basis, and he does it with a smirk. But this? Coming back here? It makes his chest tight.

He grabs his duffel bag from the passenger seat, shoves his door open, and steps out into the biting November chill. The Thanksgiving air is crisp, biting at his cheeks as he walks up the long driveway.

Before he even reaches for the doorbell, the heavy oak door pulls open.

Phil Graham stands in the doorway. He’s a big man, built like a brick wall, still holding onto the bulk from his days as an NHL star defenseman for the Rangers. He’s wearing a crisp button-down shirt and a fake, easy smile that doesn’t reach his cold eyes.

“Garrett,” Phil booms, clapping a heavy hand on Garrett’s shoulder as he steps inside. “You actually made it. I was starting to think you’d find an excuse to stay on campus.”

“I said I was coming,” Garrett says, his voice flat. He steps out of his father’s grip as quickly as politely possible, shrugging off his jacket.

“Well, I’m glad you did. Come on in. Y/N is finishing up the last of the food in the kitchen.” Phil turns and gestures down the wide, sterile hallway. “Y/N! He’s here!”

Garrett follows his father into the living room, his jaw tight. He doesn’t want to meet the new girlfriend. He doesn’t want to know anything about the woman who is willingly spending her time with a man like Phil.

Then, you step out of the kitchen.

Garrett stops dead in his tracks.

You’re wiping your hands on a small dish towel, a nervous but warm smile on your face. You’re wearing a soft oversized sweater and dark jeans. But that’s not what makes Garrett’s stomach drop.

It’s how young you are.

You can’t be more than twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. You’re barely older than Garrett himself. The realization hits him like a physical blow, a sudden, sickening wave of nausea washing over him.

“Hi,” you say, your voice soft, almost hesitant as you step forward. You extend a hand. “I’m Y/N. It’s so great to finally meet you, Garrett.”

Garrett forces himself to take your hand. Your grip is light, your skin warm. “Yeah. Nice to meet you too.”

Phil wraps a thick, possessive arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. Garrett watches the way you subtly stiffen, the way your smile falters for a fraction of a second before recovering.

“She’s been cooking all day,” Phil says, leaning down to kiss the side of your head. “Wanted everything to be perfect for the big college star.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Garrett says, looking directly at you, trying to ignore his father entirely.

“I wanted to,” you say quickly. “I love cooking. And Phil’s told me so much about you. Your season is going really well, right? Undefeated so far?”

“Yeah,” Garrett says, surprised you actually know that. “We’re having a good run.”

“She’s a nurse,” Phil interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. “Works crazy shifts at the hospital. I tell her she works too much, but she won’t listen.”

“I like my job,” you say gently, stepping out of Phil’s hold under the guise of gesturing toward the dining room. “Dinner is ready. We should sit before it gets cold.”

The dining room table is groaning under the weight of the food you prepared. A massive turkey, bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, roasted vegetables — it’s a feast. A feast for three people. It feels excessive. It feels like you’re trying too hard to impress.

Garrett takes a seat at the far end of the table, putting as much physical distance between himself and his father as possible. You take the seat next to Phil, directly across from Garrett.

“So,” Phil says, carving the turkey with sharp, aggressive strokes. “How are your grades, Garrett? Still scraping by with those easy electives so you can stay on the ice?”

Garrett’s grip on his fork tightens. “I’m a history major, Dad. My GPA is a 3.8.”

“History,” Phil snorts, tossing a slice of dark meat onto Garrett’s plate. “Right. Because that’s going to pay the bills when you blow out your knee and your hockey career is over.”

“Phil,” you say softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Don’t say things like that. Garrett has a very bright future.”

Phil glances at you, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m just being realistic, Y/N. Someone has to keep the boy grounded.”

You give Garrett a sympathetic, apologetic look across the table. He ignores it. He doesn’t want your sympathy. He wants to know what the hell you’re doing here.

“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, leaning back in his chair. “A nurse. That’s a tough gig. ER?”

You perk up, eager for the change in subject. “Pediatrics, actually. I love it. The kids are incredibly resilient.”

“That’s awesome,” Garrett says. And he means it. You seem genuine. You seem kind. Which makes your presence in this house all the more confusing and disturbing to him. “Have you been doing it long?”

“Just over a year,” you say, passing the bowl of mashed potatoes across the table. “I graduated last spring.”

Garrett does the math in his head. Just over a year. Barely out of nursing school. She’s twenty-three. His dad is forty-eight.

“She gets too emotionally attached,” Phil chimes in, loading his plate with stuffing. “Comes home crying half the time. I keep telling her she needs a thicker skin if she wants to survive the real world.”

“It’s not a weakness to care about my patients, Phil,” you say, your voice dropping a fraction in volume.

“I didn’t say it was a weakness,” Phil snaps, his tone instantly sharper. “I said you need a thicker skin. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Garrett watches you carefully. You look down at your plate, your shoulders hunching slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “You’re right.”

Garrett’s stomach twists. The dynamic is terrifyingly familiar. It’s the exact same tone, the exact same manipulative pivot his father used to pull on his mother. Make her feel crazy. Make her apologize for his bad behavior.

“It takes a lot of strength to care about sick kids,” Garrett says loudly, breaking the sudden, suffocating silence. He locks eyes with his father. “I think it’s badass.”

Phil glares at him, his jaw ticking. “Eat your turkey, Garrett.”

The rest of the meal is agonizing. It’s a masterclass in awkward, strained tension. You try your best to keep the conversation going, asking Garrett about Briar, about his teammates, about his classes.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Garrett?” You ask, trying for a bright, casual tone as you take a sip of your water.

“No,” Garrett says. “No time. Between practice, games, and classes, I’m pretty booked.”

“He just hasn’t found a girl who can put up with him,” Phil chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “He’s just like his mother. Stubborn. Thinks he knows everything.”

Garrett freezes. The mention of his mother feels like a live wire in the room. His mother, who battled lung cancer while living in this hellhole. His mother, who took the brunt of Phil’s rage for years before Garrett became the primary target.

“Don’t talk about her,” Garrett says, his voice deadly quiet.

“I’ll talk about whoever I want in my own house,” Phil shoots back, leaning forward, his massive frame intimidating. “You think because you play a little college puck you can come in here and give me orders?”

“I said,” Garrett repeats, every muscle in his body coiled and tight, “don’t talk about my mother.”

“Please,” you interrupt, your voice shaking slightly. You look panicked, your eyes darting between Garrett and his father. “Please, let’s just have a nice dinner. I made pumpkin pie. I can—I can go get it right now.”

You push your chair back, moving a little too quickly.

“Sit down, Y/N,” Phil says sharply. “We’re not finished eating.”

“I just wanted to get the pie,” you stammer, already half-standing.

“I said sit down!” Phil’s voice echoes off the dining room walls.

You flinch. It’s a small, violent jerk of your shoulders, a conditioned reflex.

Garrett sees it. He feels the anger boiling in his veins, hot and volatile.

You slowly lower yourself back into your chair, your eyes glued to the tablecloth. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll wait.”

“Good,” Phil says, picking up his fork again as if nothing happened. “Now, pass the gravy.”

You reach across the table for the gravy boat. As you extend your arm, the loose sleeve of your oversized sweater rides up, pushed back by the edge of a serving bowl.

Garrett’s eyes lock onto your wrist.

High up on your forearm, just below the elbow, is a cluster of dark, purplish-black bruises. They aren’t random smudges. They are distinct, unmistakable ovals.

Finger marks.

The shape of a large hand gripping violently tight.

Garrett stops breathing.

The dining room fades away. The smell of the roasted turkey, the clinking of Phil’s silverware against the china — it all vanishes. All Garrett can see is that bruised skin.

He knows those bruises. He used to have them on his own arms, his own ribs. He saw them on his mother’s pale skin, hidden under long sleeves in the middle of July.

Phil never changed.

The monster who terrorized Garrett and his mother for years is sitting at the head of the table, pretending to be a normal man, and he’s doing it to this poor, young girl.

Garrett stands up.

He moves so fast, so violently, that his heavy wooden chair tips backward and crashes into the hardwood floor with a deafening bang.

“Garrett!” Phil barks, startled. “What the hell is your problem?”

Garrett doesn’t look at his father. He can’t, because if he looks at him right now, he will reach across this table and kill him.

He looks at you.

You’ve quickly yanked your sleeve down, your face pale, your eyes wide with terror as you realize what he just saw.

“I’m leaving,” Garrett chokes out. His chest is heaving. He wants to vomit. He actually feels the bile rising in his throat.

“You just got here!” Phil yells, throwing his napkin onto the table. “Sit your ass back down!”

“No,” Garrett says, his voice shaking with a dangerous, barely controlled fury. “I’m done. I’m done with you. I’m done with this fucking house.”

He turns on his heel and storms out of the dining room.

“Garrett!” Phil roars, the sound of a chair scraping loudly behind him.

Garrett doesn’t stop. He stalks down the hallway, his heart pounding in his ears. He reaches the coat rack by the front door and snatches his heavy jacket off the hook, nearly ripping the hook out of the wall in the process.

Footsteps hurry down the hall behind him. Light footsteps.

“Garrett, wait!”

He pauses, his hand on the brass doorknob. He turns around.

You are standing a few feet away, wringing your hands together. You look terrified. Phil is looming in the doorway of the living room behind you, his face red with rage.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Phil demands. “You ungrateful little punk.”

Garrett ignores him. He focuses entirely on you.

“Garrett, please,” you whisper, stepping closer to him, keeping your voice low so Phil can’t hear over his own ranting. “Please don’t go like this. It’s … it’s my fault. I made him mad earlier. I dropped a glass and I shouldn’t have talked back. It’s not what you think.”

The words hit Garrett like a physical blow. The excuses. The self-blame. It’s a script he has heard a thousand times before.

He lets go of the doorknob and steps toward you. You shrink back slightly, anticipating anger.

But Garrett isn’t angry at you.

“Stop,” Garrett says, his voice remarkably steady now, cutting through your panicked excuses. “Stop talking.”

You snap your mouth shut, tears brimming in your eyes.

Garrett looks you dead in the eye. He needs you to hear this. He needs you to understand.

“It is never your fault,” Garrett says, emphasizing every single word. “Do you hear me? Never.”

“You don’t understand,” you shake your head, a tear spilling over your eyelashes. “He just gets stressed, and I pushed him-”

“I understand perfectly,” Garrett cuts you off, his tone fierce. “I lived in this house for eighteen years. I watched him do it to my mother. I watched him do it to me.”

Your breath hitches. Your eyes widen in shock, glancing back at Phil, then back to Garrett.

“He is an abusive piece of shit,” Garrett says loudly, making sure his voice carries down the hall to where his father is standing in stunned silence. “And he will never stop. He will never change. I don’t care how much he cries and pretends to apologize after every time he hurts you. He will do it again.”

“Garrett, shut your damn mouth!” Phil shouts, taking a step forward.

“Fuck you, Phil!” Garrett roars back, the raw, unadulterated hatred pouring out of him.

He turns back to you. Your face is crumpled, the illusion shattered. You’re trembling.

“Get the hell away from him,” Garrett tells you, his voice lowering to an urgent, desperate plea. “Before it’s too late. Please.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He can’t stay here another second.

He yanks the front door open, steps out into the freezing night, and slams the heavy door shut behind him. The sound echoes across the quiet suburban street like a gunshot.

He practically runs down the driveway to his Jeep. He rips the door open, throws himself into the driver’s seat, and jams the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life.

Garrett throws it into reverse, peels out of the driveway, and hits the gas, desperate to put as much distance between himself and that house as possible.

He drives for ten minutes before he finally pulls over on the shoulder of an empty highway.

He shoves the car into park.

And then he loses it.

He slams his hands against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. A scream of pure, visceral frustration tears from his throat. The horn blares into the dark night.

He rests his forehead against the leather of the steering wheel, his chest heaving, his breathing ragged.

He closes his eyes, but all he sees are those bruises. Those dark, brutal marks on your pale skin.

You’re a nurse. You’re sweet. You smiled and baked a damn pie and you are trapped in a house with a monster. A girl who can’t be much older than he is, taking the hits that his mother used to take.

Garrett grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He told you to get away. He hopes to God you listen. But as he sits there in the cold, dark car on the way back to Briar, a sickening feeling settles deep in his gut.

He knows this isn’t over. He can’t just walk away and leave you there.

***

The hit comes out of nowhere.

One second, Garrett is flying down the center of the ice, the puck a familiar, comfortable weight on the blade of his stick. The Briar arena is deafening, thousands of students screaming as he crosses the blue line. He spots the opening. He sets up the shot.

The next second, a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound defenseman from Harvard blindsides him.

The elbow catches Garrett right under the edge of his helmet. The crack is sickeningly loud, echoing in his own skull before the ice rushes up to meet him. He hits the frozen surface hard, sliding into the boards in a tangled mess of limbs and composite sticks.

The whistle blows shrilly. The crowd erupts into angry boos.

Garrett lies there for a few seconds, staring up at the blinding stadium lights. His head is ringing. A high-pitched, sustained whine blocks out the sound of his teammates rushing to his defense. There’s a sharp, burning pain right above his left eyebrow, and when he blinks, something warm and wet runs down his face.

“Graham! Hey, Graham, don’t move.”

Robby, the Briar athletic trainer, is suddenly leaning over him, his face pinched with concern.

“I’m fine,” Garrett groans, trying to push himself up on his heavy gloves. The ice tilts precariously. “Just a scratch. Get me back out there. We’re on a power play now.”

“You’re not going anywhere near a puck tonight, kid,” Robby says, gripping Garrett’s shoulder to keep him down. Robby presses a thick wad of gauze against Garrett’s forehead. Garrett winces as white-hot pain flares. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, and your eyes are rolling. We’re going to the locker room, and then you’re going to the hospital.”

“Hospital?” Garrett snaps, instantly irritated. “Robby, come on. Just glue it shut. Do the concussion protocol. I know what month it is.”

“I need imaging, Garrett. That hit was dirty, and your helmet shifted. I’m not playing games with your brain. Up you get. Slowly.”

Forty-five minutes later, Garrett is sitting on the edge of a crinkly, paper-covered bed in a sterile room at the local emergency department. He’s still in his bottom gear — his bulky hockey pants, his skates replaced by slide sandals Robby grabbed from his locker, and his Briar hockey hoodie pulled over his t-shirt.

He smells like sweat, ice, and metallic blood. He feels like a caged animal.

Robby did the initial check-up and handed him off to the triage nurse, who promised someone would be in shortly to clean the wound, stitch him up, and get him down to CT. That was twenty minutes ago.

Garrett taps his foot impatiently against the linoleum floor. His head throbs in time with his heartbeat. He hates hospitals. He hates the smell of antiseptic, the stark white lights, the feeling of vulnerability.

Most of all, he just wants to go to sleep.

He leans back, closing his eyes and trying to breathe through the dull nausea rolling in his stomach.

The heavy wooden door to his exam room clicks open.

“Sorry for the wait,” a soft, hurried voice says, followed by the squeak of rubber-soled shoes. “It’s a zoo out there tonight. Full moon or something.”

Garrett opens his eyes, a sarcastic remark already loaded on his tongue about how long it takes to get a needle and thread in this place.

The words die instantly in his throat.

You are standing by the rolling metal cart, pulling on a pair of purple nitrile gloves. You’re wearing scrubs. Not the standard-issue, depressing hospital blue, but a light pink top covered in tiny, cartoonish stethoscopes and smiling Band-Aids. It’s undeniably cute. It’s the kind of uniform designed to make terrified kids feel safe.

You snap the second glove onto your wrist and finally turn around to look at the patient.

You freeze.

Your hands hover in mid-air. The professional, welcoming smile you walked in with vanishes so fast it’s like it was never there. The color drains completely from your face, leaving you looking like a ghost in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

“Garrett,” you breathe, the name barely a whisper.

Garrett stares at you. His heart does a strange, painful stutter in his chest.

Of all the hospitals. Of all the nurses.

He hasn’t stopped thinking about you since Thanksgiving. It’s been three weeks. Three weeks of replaying that disastrous dinner in his head, hearing his father’s booming, aggressive voice, and seeing those dark, finger-shaped bruises on your arm.

He had hoped, with a desperate kind of optimism, that you had listened to him. That his dramatic exit had been the wake-up call you needed. He hoped you packed your bags, walked out of Phil Graham’s massive, oppressive house, and never looked back.

But as you stand there, clutching a clipboard to your chest like a shield, Garrett’s stomach sinks.

“What are you doing here?” Garrett asks. His voice is hoarse, the concussion making him sound rougher than he intends. “I thought you worked pediatrics.”

You blink rapidly, seemingly trying to reboot your brain. You take a cautious step back, closer to the door, as if preparing to bolt.

“I do,” you say, your voice remarkably shaky. You clear your throat and try again, fighting for a professional tone. “I do work pediatrics. We’re … we’re short-staffed down here tonight. A nasty flu bug wiped out half the ER nurses. They floated me down because I’m the newest on my floor.”

“Right,” Garrett says, his eyes locked on you.

The tension in the tiny exam room is thick enough to cut with a scalpel. Neither of you moves.

“I can,” you stammer, your eyes darting from the bloody gauze taped to his forehead to his skates-less feet, avoiding direct eye contact. “I can go get someone else. Another nurse. If you’re … if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Garrett says immediately.

He doesn’t want you to leave. He needs to know what happened after he drove away. He needs to know if you’re okay.

You hesitate, your grip on the clipboard turning your knuckles white. You bite your bottom lip, a nervous habit that sends a jolt of protective instinct straight through Garrett’s chest.

“Okay,” you finally whisper. You force yourself to take a step forward, slipping into nurse-mode like a protective second skin. “Okay. Let’s … let’s take a look at that cut, Mr. Graham. The doctor will be in shortly for the stitches, but I need to clean it and do a standard neuro check first.”

“It’s just Garrett,” he mutters, hating the formal ‘Mr. Graham’. It makes him think of his father.

“Garrett,” you correct yourself softly.

You pull a rolling stool over to the side of his bed and sit down. You’re close now. Close enough that he can smell the faint, clean scent of your vanilla shampoo over the harsh hospital antiseptics.

“Can you look straight at me?” You ask, pulling a small penlight from your scrub pocket.

Garrett turns his head. He looks straight at you.

And that’s when he really sees it.

The harsh, unforgiving overhead lights of the ER leave nothing in shadow. You are wearing makeup. A lot of it. Far more than you wore at Thanksgiving. The foundation is thick, expertly applied to look matte and flawless.

But it’s not flawless.

Underneath the heavy-duty concealer on your left cheekbone, there is a distinct, yellowish-green discoloration. The fading remnants of a severe bruise. And when you lean forward to shine the light in his eyes, the v-neck of your cute, patterned scrub top gapes just a fraction.

Right on your collarbone, peeking out from the fabric, is a mottled patch of dark purple and black. It looks fresh.

Garrett’s breath hitches.

“Follow the light with your eyes, please,” you say softly, your brow furrowed in concentration. “Without moving your head.”

Garrett tries. He really does. But his eyes drop from the penlight to your cheekbone. Then down to the edge of your collar.

A wave of nausea hits him, so intense and violent he actually grips the edges of the exam table to ground himself. It’s not from the concussion. It’s from the crushing, suffocating weight of guilt.

He did this.

He knows he did this.

He remembers the look on his father’s face when he slammed the door. He remembers the rage, the wounded pride. Phil Graham doesn’t just get yelled at in his own house by his son and let it go. Phil Graham retaliates. He takes his anger out on whatever is closest. On whoever is weakest.

At Thanksgiving, that was you.

Garrett left you alone with a monster he had just purposely provoked.

“Are you feeling dizzy?” You ask, misinterpreting his sudden rigidity. You click the penlight off, your eyes scanning his face with genuine concern. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?”

“Yeah,” Garrett whispers, his voice cracking. “Yeah, I feel sick.”

You immediately stand up, reaching for a plastic basin on the counter. “Okay, lean forward. Deep breaths-”

“Not because of my head,” Garrett interrupts.

He reaches out and grabs your wrist.

He does it gently. He’s incredibly aware of his own strength, of the sheer size difference between them. His large hand loosely encircles your delicate wrist over the purple nitrile glove.

You freeze instantly. Your entire body goes rigid, a startled gasp slipping from your lips.

“Garrett, let go,” you whisper, panic suddenly flaring in your eyes. You glance frantically at the closed door.

“He did this,” Garrett says, his voice thick with a rage that threatens to choke him. He doesn’t let go, but he doesn’t squeeze, either. He just holds you there, forcing you to look at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say automatically. The denial is fast, practiced. You tug your arm, trying to pull away. “Please, I need to clean your wound.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Garrett pleads. He lets go of your wrist, raising his hand to point a shaking finger at your face. “The makeup. Your cheek. Your collarbone. I can see it, Y/N.”

You flinch as if he struck you. You immediately reach up, your gloved hand self-consciously covering your collarbone, pulling the fabric of your scrubs higher. You look away, your jaw trembling.

“It’s nothing,” you say, staring fixedly at the rolling cart. “I’m clumsy. I bumped into an open cabinet door in the kitchen.”

“A cabinet door doesn’t grab your collarbone,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh, heartbroken whisper. “A cabinet door didn’t leave finger marks on your arm at Thanksgiving. Stop protecting him.”

“I’m not protecting anyone,” you snap, finally looking back at him. Your eyes are bright with unshed tears, defensively angry. “You don’t know anything about my life, Garrett. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know my father,” Garrett fires back, leaning forward, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head. “I know exactly what he is. I lived with it for eighteen years. You think you’re the first person he’s done this to? You think you’re special? My mother used to use the exact same brand of heavy concealer you’re wearing right now.”

The words hit you hard. Your defensive anger crumbles in an instant, leaving behind a raw, terrified vulnerability that makes Garrett want to punch a hole through the wall.

A single tear escapes, cutting a track down your powdered cheek. You quickly swipe it away with the back of your wrist, smudging the concealer and revealing more of the fading bruise beneath.

“Why didn’t you leave?” Garrett asks, the desperation bleeding into his tone. “I told you to get away. I told you what he was. Why are you still there?”

You let out a shaky, bitter laugh. It’s a terrible sound. “Leave? And go where, Garrett? He moved me into his house. My name isn’t on the lease of my old apartment anymore. I have student loans that are drowning me. When I met him, he … he was so generous. He offered to help me get on my feet. He bought my car.”

Garrett closes his eyes. He feels sick all over again. Classic Phil. Financial control. Isolate the target. Make them dependent so they feel like they can’t survive on their own. It’s a textbook maneuver, and Garrett hates himself for not realizing it sooner.

“So you’re trapped,” Garrett states flatly, opening his eyes to look at you.

“I’m managing,” you say stubbornly, though your voice lacks conviction. “He’s just … he’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”

“Bullshit,” Garrett practically growls.

“Don’t yell at me!” You whisper-shout, looking panicked at the door again. “I’m at work, Garrett. Please. I can’t do this right now. If my charge nurse hears …”

Garrett forces himself to take a deep breath. He forces his muscles to uncoil. You’re right. This is your place of work. You’re already terrified, and him losing his temper — even on your behalf — is only making you more scared.

“Okay,” Garrett says softly, gentling his tone. “Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t yell.”

You let out a trembling sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly. You reach for a sterile saline wipe from the tray. Your hands are shaking.

“I have to clean the cut,” you murmur, keeping your eyes down. “It’s going to sting.”

“Do it,” Garrett says, sitting perfectly still.

You lean in close again. You gently press the saline wipe against the gash above his eyebrow. It burns like a bitch, but Garrett doesn’t even flinch. He is completely hyper-focused on you.

Up this close, he can see the exhaustion etched around your eyes. He can see the faint tremor in your fingers. He can feel the anxiety radiating off you in waves.

“He took it out on you, didn’t he?” Garrett asks quietly, the words meant only for the two of you. “After I left on Thanksgiving. I made him furious, and I walked out the door, and he took it out on you.”

Your hand pauses. The saline wipe hovers over his cut. You don’t look at his eyes; you just stare blindly at his forehead.

“Garrett, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking completely. “Don’t.”

“I need to know,” he insists, the guilt gnawing at his insides like acid. “Did he hit you because of me?”

You swallow hard. A fresh tear falls, splashing softly against the plastic bib covering Garrett’s chest.

“He was mad,” you finally admit, your voice barely audible over the hum of the hospital air conditioning. “He said I embarrassed him in front of you. That I was stupid for engaging with you.”

Garrett closes his eyes. He feels like he’s been sucker-punched by that Harvard defenseman all over again. Only this time, the pain is a thousand times worse.

“I’m so sorry,” Garrett breathes. The apology feels entirely inadequate, but it’s all he has. “Y/N, I’m so fucking sorry. I thought … I thought if I called him out, if I showed you I saw it, you’d realize it wasn’t normal and you’d run. I didn’t think about the fallout. I left you alone with him.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say automatically, returning to cleaning the wound. Your touch is incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence you go home to. “You were right. Everything you said was right. I just … I didn’t know how bad it was going to be.”

“How bad did it get?” Garrett asks, his chest tight.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly, tossing the bloody wipe into the biohazard bin and reaching for a fresh one. “I’m fine. He apologized the next day. He cried. He promised he’d never do it again.”

“And you believed him?” Garrett asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

You finally look him in the eyes. The profound sadness in your gaze breaks his heart.

“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t believe him. But I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Silence falls over the small exam room. It’s a heavy, suffocating silence. Garrett stares at you, a fierce, protective determination hardening in his chest.

He doesn’t care that he only met you once. He doesn’t care that you’re technically his father’s girlfriend. All he cares about is the fact that you are a kind, gentle person who spends your days taking care of sick kids, and you are going home to a nightmare.

A nightmare Garrett knows intimately.

“You’re not going back there,” Garrett says suddenly.

You pause, looking at him with utter confusion. “What?”

“When your shift is over,” Garrett says, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “You are not going back to his house.”

“Garrett, be reasonable,” you sigh, shaking your head. “I have to. All my stuff is there. My life is there.”

“I don’t give a shit about your stuff,” Garrett says. “Stuff can be replaced. You can’t. If you go back there, he’s going to kill you, Y/N. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, he will cross a line he can’t uncross. You know it, and I know it.”

“You’re scaring me,” you whisper, taking a step back from the bed.

“Good,” Garrett says intensely. “You should be scared. You should be terrified. Because he is dangerous. And I am not letting you go back to him.”

“You can’t control what I do,” you say, a spark of defiance finally flaring in your eyes. “You don’t get to order me around. You’re just as bossy as he is!”

The comparison stings, but Garrett takes it. He deserves it. “I’m not trying to order you around. I’m trying to save your life. Because I couldn’t save my mother’s, and I’ll be damned if I sit back and let him do it to someone else.”

You stare at him, the defiance melting away, replaced by shock. You didn’t know the full extent of it. Phil certainly wouldn’t have told you the truth about his marriage.

“Garrett …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“I have a house,” Garrett says, the plan forming rapidly in his mind. “Off-campus. I live with three of my teammates. We have a couch. It’s not fancy, and it constantly smells like hockey gear and stale pizza, but it’s safe. He doesn’t know where it is. He doesn’t have a key.”

Your eyes go wide. “You want me to … to come home with you?”

“Yes,” Garrett says, without a second of hesitation.

“I can’t do that,” you say, shaking your head frantically. “I can’t impose on you and your roommates. I barely know you. Phil would lose his mind if he found out.”

“Phil is going to lose his mind anyway when he realizes you’re gone,” Garrett counters. “Let him. Let him tear the house apart. By the time he realizes you aren’t coming back, you’ll be gone. And you won’t be alone.”

“Garrett, this is crazy,” you whisper. You look around the room, as if expecting Phil to jump out of the medical supply cabinet. “I have a shift until 7 AM. I can’t just leave with you.”

“I’ll wait,” Garrett says stubbornly.

“You have a concussion!” You argue. “You need to rest. You need to be monitored.”

“I’ll rest in the waiting room,” Garrett fires back. “I’m not leaving this hospital without you.”

“You are impossible,” you say, but there is a distinct lack of heat in your voice. You look incredibly tired. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones and makes it hard to stand.

“I’m stubborn,” Garrett corrects, echoing his father’s insult from Thanksgiving, but reclaiming it. “Just like my mother.”

Before you can argue further, the heavy wooden door swings open.

A tall, exhausted-looking doctor with a clipboard steps into the room. “Alright, Mr. Graham. Sorry for the wait. Let’s get a look at that-” The doctor stops, glancing between Garrett and you. The tension in the room is palpable, even to a stranger. “Is everything alright in here, Y/N?”

You jump slightly, instantly stepping back from Garrett’s bed and smoothing down your scrub top. You plaster that fake, professional smile back on your face.

“Everything is fine, Dr. Gardner,” you say brightly. “Just finished cleaning the laceration. He’s all ready for you.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Gardner says, stepping up to the bed and clicking on a bright overhead surgical light. “Alright, Garrett, let’s get you stitched up so we can get you down to CT. Y/N, can you prep a local anesthetic tray, please?”

“Right away, Doctor,” you say.

You move mechanically, pulling supplies from the cart, avoiding Garrett’s gaze entirely.

Garrett doesn’t say a word as the doctor numbs his forehead. He doesn’t flinch as the needle pierces his skin to pull the wound shut. He keeps his eyes locked on you the entire time.

He watches you hand the doctor the scissors. He watches you dispose of the bloody gauze. He watches the way your shoulders stay rigidly tense, the way you constantly glance at the clock on the wall.

You are terrified. You are trapped.

But not anymore.

Garrett made a mistake at Thanksgiving. He let his anger blind him to the consequences. He walked away to protect himself, and he left you in the line of fire.

He isn’t walking away this time.

Dr. Gardner finishes the final stitch and snips the thread. “There you go. Seven stitches. We’ll get a bandage on that, and an orderly will be in shortly to take you down to imaging.”

“Thanks,” Garrett grunts.

“Y/N will get you bandaged up,” Dr. Gardner says, already heading for the door. “Keep an eye on him, Y/N. If he gets nauseous again, let me know.”

“I will,” you say softly.

The door clicks shut. You are alone again.

You pick up a square white bandage and peel off the backing. You step back up to Garrett’s side, keeping your eyes meticulously focused on his forehead.

“Hold still,” you murmur, pressing the bandage carefully over the stitches.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Garrett says quietly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty.

Your fingers pause against his skin. You finally look down into his eyes.

“When your shift ends,” Garrett says, holding your gaze, refusing to let you look away. “I will be sitting in the waiting room. And you are walking out of those doors with me.”

You stare at him. Your bottom lip trembles. The professional mask you’ve been clinging to finally cracks, and for the first time, Garrett sees a tiny, desperate flicker of hope in your eyes.

You don’t say yes.

But you don’t say no, either.

You just finish pressing the edges of the bandage down, your touch lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Then, you step back, grab your clipboard, and hurry out of the room without another word.

Garrett watches the door close behind you. He leans his head back against the wall, ignoring the throbbing pain, and settles in to wait.

He isn’t going anywhere.

***

The drive from the hospital to the house is agonizingly silent.

Garrett keeps his eyes glued to the dark roads of Briar, his hands gripping the steering wheel of his Jeep at ten and two. The white bandage over his left eyebrow stands out starkly in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. He hasn’t said a word since you both walked out of the sliding glass doors of the ER.

You sit rigidly in the passenger seat, still wearing your pink patterned scrubs, your coat pulled tightly around your shoulders. You stare out the window, watching the streetlights blur past, a million thoughts racing through your mind at a frantic, dizzying pace.

What are you doing? You just walked out on a shift. You just got in a car with your abusive boyfriend’s estranged, concussed son. You are heading to a house full of college hockey players you’ve never met.

You are terrified.

But as you steal a glance at Garrett’s hardened profile, you realize something else. For the first time in months, you aren’t terrified of the person sitting next to you. You’re terrified of the fallout, of what Phil will do when he finds out you’re gone. But Garrett makes you feel inexplicably safe.

Garrett pulls into the driveway of a large, slightly weathered off-campus rental house. A couple of other cars are parked haphazardly on the pavement. The porch light is on, illuminating a rogue red Solo cup resting on the railing and a pair of muddy sneakers near the welcome mat.

Garrett kills the engine. He doesn’t immediately move. He just sits there, his chest rising and falling with a deep, bracing sigh.

“We’re here,” he says quietly, his voice raspy.

You look at the house. It looks huge, chaotic, and entirely intimidating. “Garrett, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Your roommates …”

“My roommates are fine,” Garrett interrupts, turning his head to look at you. His dark eyes are serious, the bruising around his cut already turning an ugly shade of purple. “They’re idiots most of the time, but they’re good guys. They aren’t going to care that you’re here. The only thing they’re going to care about is making sure you’re okay.”

You swallow hard, your fingers twisting the fabric of your scrub top. “They don’t even know me.”

“They know me,” Garrett says simply. “And that’s enough for them. Come on.”

He pushes his door open and steps out into the crisp night air. You take a shaky breath and follow suit.

Garrett leads you up the porch steps. He doesn’t knock. He just pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.

The inside of the house is exactly what you would expect from four college athletes. It smells faintly of stale beer, citrus cleaner, and the undeniable musk of hockey gear. The living room is massive, dominated by a huge sectional couch, an enormous flat-screen TV, and a coffee table littered with empty pizza boxes and video game controllers.

Despite the late hour, the house isn’t asleep.

The TV is on, playing some sports highlight reel at a low volume. A guy with dark hair and striking blue eyes is sprawled across the couch, tossing a lacrosse ball into the air and catching it. Another guy, blonde and built like a Greek god, is sitting on the floor leaning against the couch, a game controller in his hands.

From the kitchen, the sound of sizzling bacon and the smell of coffee drift out.

The dark-haired guy catches the ball and sits up as the front door closes. “Look who finally decided to show up. We saw the hit on Twitter, man. Robby texted the group chat and said you were getting stitched up.”

“I got stitched up,” Garrett says flatly.

The blonde guy pauses his game and looks back over his shoulder. He takes one look at Garrett’s face and winces. “Damn, G. You look like you went ten rounds with a meat grinder. How many stitches?”

“Seven,” Garrett mutters, toeing off his slides.

“Is he alive?” A third voice calls out from the kitchen. A tall, broad-shouldered guy walks out, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He has a kind face and a calm demeanor that instantly sets him apart from the other two. “Because I’m making breakfast at 2 AM and if he’s dead, I’m not making him eggs.”

“I’m alive, Tuck,” Garrett says, stepping further into the room.

As Garrett moves, he reveals you standing nervously behind him in the entryway.

The dynamic in the room shifts instantly.

Logan, the dark-haired guy, freezes with the lacrosse ball in his hand. Dean, the blonde, drops his controller entirely. Tucker stops wiping his hands, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline.

They stare at you. You stare back, feeling painfully out of place in your cartoon-stethoscope scrubs and heavy winter coat.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across Dean’s face. He lets out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Logan starts to laugh, shaking his head as he pushes himself up off the couch. “Only you, Graham. Only you could get a level-three concussion, go to the emergency room bleeding from the head, and somehow manage to pull the hottest nurse on the floor.”

“I didn’t even know they made scrubs that cute,” Dean chimes in, leaning back on his hands, his eyes raking over you with playful, unabashed appreciation. “Hi there. I’m Dean. If you’re looking for a second opinion on that head injury, I’m practically a doctor.”

“You’re a poli-sci major,” Tucker points out dryly, though a slight, amused smile tugs at his lips. He looks at you. “Ignore them. They’re animals. I’m Tucker.”

Under normal circumstances, you might have blushed or laughed. They are objectively gorgeous, charismatic guys, and the banter is effortless.

But there is nothing normal about tonight.

You don’t smile. You just shrink back slightly, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, hyper-aware of the dark bruise blooming on your collarbone hidden beneath your coat.

Garrett doesn’t laugh, either.

His body goes entirely rigid. He steps in front of you, physically blocking Dean and Logan’s view of you. The protective instinct is so sudden and absolute that it changes the entire temperature of the room.

“Shut up,” Garrett snaps.

His voice is quiet, but it cracks like a whip. It lacks any of his usual playful arrogance. It’s hard, sharp, and deadly serious.

Logan’s smile vanishes. Dean sits up a little straighter, his playful demeanor evaporating. Tucker frowns, immediately reading the heavy, suffocating tension radiating off his captain.

“Whoa,” Logan says, holding his hands up defensively. “Relax, man. We’re just messing around.”

“I’m not,” Garrett says, his jaw ticking. He looks at his three best friends, his teammates, his brothers. “Turn the TV off. Sit down. All of you.”

Dean scrambles up from the floor and takes a seat on the couch next to Logan. Tucker slowly walks out of the kitchen, tossing the dish towel onto a chair, and sits down on the loveseat.

Nobody says a word. The house is completely silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the other room. They watch Garrett, waiting.

Garrett turns back to you. His expression softens marginally. “Take off your coat,” he murmurs. “Sit down.”

You shake your head slightly. “I prefer to stand.”

Garrett looks like he wants to argue, but he nods. He doesn’t sit, either. He stands in the center of the living room, a defensive barrier between you and the rest of the room.

He runs a hand through his messy, blood-matted hair, wincing as he brushes too close to the bandage. He takes a deep breath.

“You guys know about my dad,” Garrett starts.

It’s not a question. It’s a statement.

Logan nods slowly. “Yeah. Phil Graham. NHL legend. Played for the Rangers. Hardass.”

“Right,” Garrett says, the word dripping with pure, concentrated venom. “The legend. The great Phil Graham. The guy everyone thinks hung the moon because he could check a guy through the glass.”

Garrett starts pacing, just a few short steps back and forth, the nervous energy impossible to contain.

“Everything you think you know about him is a lie,” Garrett says, his voice thick with years of repressed anger. “He’s not a hero. He’s not just a strict, demanding hockey dad.”

Tucker leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Garrett, what’s going on?”

“He’s a monster,” Garrett says bluntly. He stops pacing and looks directly at Logan. “You know how I never go home? You know how I stayed here over the summer? How I only went back for Thanksgiving because he threatened to cut off my tuition if I didn’t show my face?”

Logan nods again, his expression growing darker.

“It’s because he used to beat the shit out of me,” Garrett says.

The words drop like a physical weight into the room.

No one breathes.

Dean’s mouth falls open slightly. Logan’s hands clench into tight fists on his knees. Tucker closes his eyes, a muscle feathering in his jaw.

You stand by the entryway, your heart pounding in your throat. You didn’t know the extent of it until tonight, but hearing him say it out loud, in front of these people, feels incredibly raw.

“He did it to me,” Garrett continues, his voice unwavering now, the dam finally breaking. “And he did it to my mother. For years. He’d get drunk, or he’d get angry that a game didn’t go his way, or his food was cold, and he’d take it out on us. He broke my mom’s wrist when I was twelve. Told everyone she fell down the stairs.”

“Jesus,” Dean whispers, looking physically ill.

“Garrett,” Tucker says quietly, pain lacing his tone. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”

“Because it’s my shame,” Garrett spits back automatically. Then he catches himself, shaking his head. “No. That’s what he wanted me to think. Because nobody believes that the great Phil Graham is a wife-beating piece of shit. Because I thought I left it behind when I came to Briar.”

Garrett stops. He turns slightly, his eyes finding yours across the room. The pain in his gaze is profound, but there is also a fierce, unyielding resolve.

He turns back to the guys.

“When I went home for Thanksgiving,” Garrett says, “He forced me to have dinner so I could meet his new girlfriend. He wanted to show off. Play the happy family.”

Logan looks confused. “Okay. What does this have to do with …” His voice trails off. His eyes slowly shift from Garrett to you.

The realization hits the room in waves.

You can literally see the progression on their faces.

First, Logan. His brow furrows, his eyes widening as the math clicks into place in his brain.

Then, Dean. He looks at you, really looks at you this time, taking in the youthful softness of your face, the fact that you can’t be more than a year or two older than them. He physically recoils on the couch.

“No,” Dean says, the word slipping out as a breathless exhale. “No fucking way. She’s … she’s a kid. She’s our age.”

“She’s twenty-three,” Garrett confirms, his voice turning cold and clinical. “And my dad is forty-eight.”

The guys glitch.

It’s the only word for it. Their brains visibly short-circuit trying to process the information. The cognitive dissonance of the beautiful, young nurse standing in their hallway and the aging, massive, abusive NHL enforcer is too much to compute.

“Are you serious right now?” Logan asks, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. He isn’t angry at Garrett. He’s furious at the situation. “That’s … Garrett, that’s sick.”

“It gets worse,” Garrett says.

He closes the distance between himself and you. He stands right beside you. You shrink back slightly, instinctively grabbing the lapels of your coat, holding it tighter around your neck.

“At dinner,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that commands the entire room. “She reached for the gravy. Her sleeve slid up. And she had bruises all over her arm in the shape of a hand.”

A heavy, violent silence descends on the living room.

Tucker stands up. He doesn’t say anything, but his entire posture changes. The calm, relaxed guy who was making bacon two minutes ago is gone, replaced by a wall of silent, protective fury.

“I called him out,” Garrett continues, the guilt bleeding heavily into his words. “I yelled at him. I told her to run, and then I left. I got in my car and I drove back here. I left her there with him.”

Garrett turns to you. He reaches out, his large hand hovering over your arm. He doesn’t touch you. He asks for permission with his eyes.

You stare at him. You are trembling, a fine, uncontrollable shake that you can’t suppress. But you slowly nod.

You let go of your coat.

Garrett gently hooks his fingers under the lapel of your jacket and pulls it back just a few inches. He gestures to your neck, to the v-neck of your scrub top.

Under the harsh, bright lights of the living room, the heavy concealer you applied in the hospital bathroom doesn’t stand a chance. The yellowish bruise on your cheekbone is visible. But worse is the dark, mottled purple bruise peeking out from the collar of your scrubs, covering your collarbone.

Logan curses. It’s a harsh sound. He stands up so fast he knocks the coffee table with his shin, completely ignoring the impact.

“He did that tonight?” Logan demands, pointing a finger at your collarbone, his eyes blazing with a protective rage that genuinely shocks you.

“No,” you say, your voice remarkably small in the large room. “He … he did it after Garrett left on Thanksgiving. Because I embarrassed him.”

Dean puts his head in his hands, burying his face in his palms. “Jesus Christ.”

“She was floated to the ER tonight,” Garrett explains, stepping in front of you again, shielding you from their intense stares. “She was my nurse. He didn’t know I was coming in. If I hadn’t taken that hit tonight, I never would have seen her again. I never would have known.”

“So you brought her here,” Tucker says softly. It’s not an accusation; it’s a confirmation.

“I brought her here,” Garrett nods firmly. “Because if she goes back to that house, he’s going to put her in the hospital as a patient, not a nurse. Or worse. She doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Garrett looks at his three best friends. The vulnerability in his eyes is something they have never seen before. Garrett Graham doesn’t ask for

help. He doesn’t show weakness. He leads the team, he carries the weight, and he never complains.

“I’m keeping her here,” Garrett says, his voice leaving absolute zero room for debate. “She takes my room. I’ll sleep on the couch. But I need to know you guys are with me on this. Because Phil is going to figure out she’s gone, and he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.”

Logan doesn’t even hesitate.

He walks around the coffee table and stops directly in front of you. He is tall, broad, and imposing, but when he looks down at you, his blue eyes are completely devoid of the mischievous glint they held earlier. They are dead serious.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Logan says, extending a massive hand.

You look at his hand, then up at his face. You slowly reach out and shake it. His grip is firm, but incredibly gentle.

“I’m Logan,” he says softly. “And no one is laying a hand on you ever again. You understand me? That guy steps foot on our property, he’s going to have to go through all four of us. And I promise you, we fight a hell of a lot dirtier than he does.”

“He’s a washed-up, geriatric bully,” Dean says, walking over to join Logan. He doesn’t smile, but there’s a ruthless kind of confidence in his posture. “We’re in our prime. Let him come. I could use the target practice.”

Tucker is the last to approach. He stops beside Garrett, looking at you with a gentle, fatherly sort of warmth.

“You’re safe here,” Tucker says, his voice deep and soothing. “You can stay as long as you need. No rent, no questions asked. We’ve got plenty of space.”

He pauses, sniffing the air, and then gestures toward the kitchen. “Now, I’ve got bacon burning. Have you eaten anything tonight?”

The sudden shift from intense, life-or-death protection to breakfast food gives you mental whiplash. You blink rapidly, staring at the three massive hockey players who just promised to violently defend a girl they met five minutes ago.

“I … um,” you stammer, completely overwhelmed. The tears you’ve been fighting all night finally break free, hot and fast down your cheeks. “No. I haven’t eaten.”

“Right,” Tucker nods, clapping his hands together once. “Logan, grab some blankets. Dean, go make up Garrett’s bed. Use the clean sheets, you animal, not the ones from the laundry pile.”

“On it,” Dean says, immediately jogging down the hallway.

“I’ll get the good pillows,” Logan says, heading for the stairs.

Tucker turns and heads back into the kitchen. “Garrett, sit her down. Coffee or tea?”

“Tea,” Garrett calls out.

Suddenly, the living room is empty, leaving just you and Garrett.

You stand there, a tear slipping off your chin, completely stunned by the whirlwind of the last five minutes.

Garrett turns to you. The intense, hardened captain who just laid down the law with his team is gone. He just looks incredibly tired, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching out to gently catch a tear on your cheek with his thumb. His touch is impossibly light. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“They didn’t even ask questions,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “They just … they just accepted it.”

“They’re my family,” Garrett says, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips. “And when someone messes with family, we circle the wagons. You’re part of the wagon now.”

He gently takes your coat by the lapels and slides it off your shoulders. He drapes it over the arm of the couch, then guides you by the elbow to sit down on the soft cushions.

“Wait here,” Garrett says softly. “I’m going to go help Dean make sure my room is actually clean. Then you’re going to sleep for a week.”

You look up at him, the heavy, crushing weight of the last few months suddenly lifting just a fraction off your chest.

“Garrett?” You ask as he turns to leave.

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

The words feel woefully inadequate, but Garrett understands the weight behind them.

He gives you a slow, solemn nod. “We’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”

And as he walks down the hall, leaving you in the warmth of the living room with the smell of bacon drifting from the kitchen, for the very first time, you actually believe it.

***

It’s been three and a half weeks since you walked through the front door of the Briar hockey house in your pink patterned scrubs, terrified and trembling.

In that time, a lot has changed.

The heavy, suffocating fear that used to dictate your every waking moment — the constant anxiety of checking your phone, of listening for the heavy tread of Phil’s boots — has slowly begun to thaw. It hasn’t vanished entirely. You still jump when a door slams too loudly, and your phone remains powered off and stuffed in the bottom of your duffel bag, replaced by a cheap burner phone Tucker bought you at a gas station.

But the house itself is a sanctuary.

It turns out that living with four massive, Division I hockey players is exactly the kind of chaotic distraction you needed.

The front door bangs open, followed instantly by the sound of heavy equipment bags hitting the hardwood floor of the entryway with synchronized thuds.

“I’m telling you, the ref was blind! He was looking right at the guy when he tripped me!” Dean’s voice echoes down the hallway, dripping with dramatic outrage.

“You tripped over the blue line,” Logan retorts, his voice rougher, exhausted. “Nobody touched you. It’s on tape. Stop trying to rewrite history.”

“My ankle is practically shattered,” Dean argues, dropping his keys onto the console table. “I need medical attention. Stat.”

You are already waiting for them in the kitchen.

The large kitchen island has been temporarily converted into what Logan affectionately calls “the triage center.” You have a large first-aid kit open on the granite counter, flanked by instant ice packs, athletic tape, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a stack of clean towels.

You lean against the counter, wearing an oversized Briar Hockey hoodie that Tucker practically forced over your head on day three. You cross your arms and wait as the boys drag themselves into the kitchen.

They look terrible. It was a brutal, incredibly physical Friday night game against Cornell, and the evidence is written all over their bodies.

Dean dramatically limps into the room first, clutching his chest as if he’s taking his final breaths.

“Y/N,” Dean gasps, leaning heavily against the island. “I am a broken man. Patch me up, Doc. Tell me I’ll walk again.”

You roll your eyes, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. “Sit on the stool, Dean. You look fine.”

“Fine?” Dean squawks, hoisting himself onto a barstool with a wince. “I took a slash to the calf that would have felled a lesser man. And I think I pulled a muscle in my back.”

“You pulled a muscle reaching for the last slice of pizza in the locker room,” Tucker says dryly as he walks into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a massive jug of water. He looks over at you, his expression softening into a fond, older-brother smile. “Hey, Y/N. How was your night?”

“Quiet,” you say, tossing an ice pack to Dean, who catches it clumsily. “Put that on your calf, you big baby. How’s the rib, Tuck?”

Tucker lifts the hem of his t-shirt, revealing a nasty, yellow-purple bruise blossoming over his lower ribs. He played through the pain, but the grimace on his face betrays him.

“Stiff,” Tucker admits, taking a seat at the island next to Dean. “Took a stick right under the padding in the second period.”

You immediately step forward, all business. You pull a fresh roll of wide athletic tape from your kit. “Stand up. Let me wrap it. It’ll give you some compression and keep it from aching when you breathe.”

“You are an angel sent from heaven,” Tucker groans, standing up and raising his arms so you can wrap the heavy tape tightly around his torso.

“She’s not an angel, she’s a tyrant,” Logan grumbles, shuffling into the kitchen last.

Logan looks like he got the worst of it. There is a fresh cut high on his cheekbone, held together by a hasty butterfly bandage from the team trainer, and he’s favoring his left shoulder heavily. He drops into the stool on the opposite side of the island and rests his head against the cool granite counter.

“Don’t be a baby, Logan,” you scold gently, finishing the wrap on Tucker’s ribs and snipping the tape with a pair of medical scissors. “Let me see the shoulder.”